The memory runs hot when ere I walk

On foot-worn paths oft traveled in my youth;

Eyes shut, but still with vision as the hawk,

Images flood the brain, can’t paint the truth

In rosy hues. Not able to connect

With pleasant happenings that surely were

A part of childhood, time cannot correct

The wrongs done to a child. He was not there,

As growing up, the learning of the ways

Of a difficult world weighed down the soul

Of a troubled boy given to displays

Of sadness, loneliness, heart less than whole

In pain of wanting more, a young boy cried,

But he who brought me out would run and hide.