Childhood’s Paradise Lost
Phorkyad Acropolis

Remnants in the ashtray.
Smoldering, still smoking.
The harshest wisps are choking…
Embers and charcoal ashes;
Dust and rusty whispers.

As a child I chased the fireflies;
I spun in the center of a spark tornado,
Capturing light itself in my jar—
Storing their light for another night—
But the glow faded as they died…

And today, every June,
I walk into my garden, to search for them.
There’s a drizzle, on a good night,
But never a storm of light

Then I look up,
To gaze into the night sky—
But I see only a greyness,
Where once I saw woven a tapestry of constellations.

The diamonds of the sky have lost their luster,
Starlight paled by the lights of the city,
And by our brightly glowing handheld screens…
Our modern method of capturing that magic light in our hands…

But where has the magic light of childhood gone?