By Detective Felthoff
Oh, don’t despair, your hair of non-paper,
And your beauty will compare to realize,
And onlookers aren’t made of stone.
Worry not, child, for you are clay,
Beyond understanding, please don’t look so blue,
This shine of yours is of innocent sense.
Oh young one, this world to you is still non-sense,
And the trees overnight turn to paper,
And the ocean isn’t a brilliant blue.
Worry when you see with real eyes,
Beyond your form of clay,
This world of people behaves as stone.
Oh pick up your chin, child, don’t shuffle with stone,
And let your hair grow is of sound sense,
And be proud of the gifted body of clay.
Worry for the others are a fragile paper,
Beyond the strength to handle real lies,
This is a primordial truth, but don’t look so blue.
Oh ye of little knowledge, don’t look so blue,
And mind you, don’t shuffle with stone,
And mind you, don’t let the onlookers realize.
Worry not the world making sense,
Beyond the scorching of paper,
This is the sound ringing in your ears of clay.
Oh you will get it soon enough, creature of clay,
And go have fun ’till you turn blue,
And let your legs fly around a zephyr of paper.
Worry is not in your mother’s tone,
Beyond still to a point of counting cents,
This is a trademark that can reel lives.
Oh little heartbeat, you will soon realize,
And you will appreciate your body of clay,
And you will make others jealous green.
Worry when you see the sky crystal blue,
Beyond it will rain of fire stone,
This existence will be of burnt paper.
This is something you already realize, so don’t look so blue.
You are of wet and glorious clay, the fire will make you hard as stone.
As I said, you will make others green, for they are only of paper.
Bio: Josh is a man of many interests. A four year and counting student of SCF, he currently seeks a BAS degree in Homeland Security. He is constantly inspired by the people that surround him and draws many creative ideas from his interactions with them, but only from the darker side of transient thoughts. As such, it can be said that he is simply a conduit of the writer’s mind behind the creaking oak closet door.