By the Windowsill

A poem about nostalgia and losing the sense of wonder I had as a child

Sitting by the windowsill I ponder
In deep thought, long and longer
My brow assuming a shape stronger
Hands crossed in latent anger

When was the last time I lived, I ponder
Not in this state of deceased slumber
To wake, to work, to surrender
Devoid of any childlike wonder

When did the last sparkle sunder?
When was my innocence plundered?
Carefree and bright, moving like thunder
With concern of only play and hunger

This I ponder, by the sill
Only to be reminded, against my will
I am no longer a dreamy youngling
And as air grows still, work calls again