Tadpoles In A Jar.

 

I very nearly killed the child,

The child with tadpoles in a jar,

Whose dog was just a breath away,

Who walked beneath a different star.

 

This son of man with raven hair,

Who offered life a faulted grin,

And emptied books like whiskey jars,

For words to shout above the din.

 

I watched him then when aged just ten,

He cast his faith in god away,

And strew with stones the upward path,

That leads to where he is today.

 

I very nearly killed the child,

When placed ambition made him mean,

While others set the honey trap,

Like actors in his painted scene.

 

A fretful fool who wanted hope,

When hope was only callow style,

Who danced as satyrs pulled the strings,

And walked alone his pilgrims mile.

 

I watched him then at twenty five,

Forget his sense and then comply,

To have and to lose the kind of love,

That made his muse a bitter lie.

 

I very nearly killed the child,

When life laid bare a crooked road,

Where gods foretold an early end,

The time to cast away the load.

 

No faulted grin to ease the way,

With life endangered wracked with fear,

With lifelessness a breath away,

The pilgrims staff and satyrs tear.

 

I watched him then at fifty some,

Grasp at a feather, strive to win,

And self forgiving find his hope,

In what was seen as greater sin.

 

I very nearly killed the child,

But now instead I set him free,

The jar of tadpoles in my hand,

Is proof at last the child is me.