The Boy In The Photograph

His stare solemn from behind the frame,

His child eyes unknowing;

Flanked by kin, Life’s game

Is but a distant wind a-blowing.

Sepia tints the sudden smiles,

The gaudy hues, the bright lights;

Since then have passed years and miles.

But still on stormy windy nights,

He ponders alone what could have been,

The distant grass temptingly green.

To reach into the past, and to change it all,

And tell the little boy how to live his life,

To warn him of mistakes big and small,

To impale defeat on the edge of a knife.

Oh, to give him all the best advice,

And to warn him to never put a foot wrong,

Nothing to him, then, would be a surprise,

For he’d know everything all along.

Oh, for a Destiny where one has no part to play,

Oh, for a Life awash forever in the clearest light of day.

But the boy in the photo hears him not.

His eyes not see Life’s mysterious plan.

He’ll stagger and fall more often than not,

And brush off his wounds to become a man.

Of mistakes, he will have his share,

Regrets he’ll have more than a few,

And encounter much for which he will not prepare,

He’ll look back in sorrow, and want to start anew.

But success is sweeter for the stumbles along the way,

The departing night makes bright the light of imminent day.

On second thoughts, it’s better this way.