This poem was inspired, as many of my writings are, by a dream, so beware of strange people and ideas…

Scene:In the midst of my own chaotic, self-induced, mental apocolypse, in a raging world which thankfully does not actually exsist.

Event: a little girl comes out of the crowd and, noticing the tears streaming down my face, walks to me and takes my hand. Pulling me out of the horrors, she hugs me with all her might, consoling me for things she couldn’t possibly understand.

…I find it so incredible how roles reverse; I should be the one who picks up a child like this when she falls and scrapes her knees, who wipes away her pint-sized tears. But here she is, wise far beyond her years, and it makes me slightly embarrrassed that I could not be comforted by anyone but her (not that I’m analyzing my dream or anything). Motherly-type affections confuse me (naturally, since I don’t have children), but nontheless I awoke with an understanding that adults do not just depend on adults, or even that children depend solely on adults, or any combination of people; we all need each other, all ages, all sorts. How can we know who we are if we don’t readily see who were were and what we will become (generally speaking, of course)?

This is in a lose form of a villanelle, I love villanelles, but it’s really not a subject matter for any strict form of poetry.