When He Was A Child

When he was a child
He did a lot of sketches
Boats, Stars, Moons,
Mountains, Clouds,
Seas, Shadows,
Mama, Papa In
His Sketchbook,

He opens them now
As tears flow from his Eyes.

The past becomes a bird
Alive hovering on his hair.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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