Childhood

Children play, their lives hearty and gay.

They thrill with laughter so shrill,

Elders wander  they take too long time to ponder.

I sit and look, with my fingers on a book,

Relaxed not so much as them

But recapitulating my childhood days of fame,

When life for me was a winning game.

Now, i realize myriad offers

but gradually lifestyle  suffers
immensely;  towards weary depravity

the only profit of growing up into an
             ‘identity’.

[I do miss my childhood.]

Those days were the days made of pure gold

That is why today it is sold, and no more in hold

I yearn to catch them by, the only wish before i die.

I know i will look like a fool

within people whose ‘maturity’ is a tool

I am a vagabond, caught up on a bondage for ages

lost in the recollection of the begotten days.

now i spend my time upon those nostalgic ‘hay-days’.