A Child

Only at night do I become this
weak-boned little boy
who falls in love with angels
that have skins made of petals,
from a flower blossoming in October.
I will laugh heartily at a joke
and let tears freely draw a smile on my face.
I will care less about death, or life, or growing up
because I will remain like this forever,
playing in the sand of memories I can create.
Once I was called a child
the day I told her I loved you
and that was when I never grew up to
act a child’s play.

Ruddapoet

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