Young Mind

Barely six years old, when he talked to the evening sea, to the moon and the stars yet, I am without doubt that in yesteryears I had and enjoyed the very same passion It seems an appreciation at most and I’ve spoken about my own in the past so I have had great time, flaunting it I had and enjoyed the very same passion If hardly have I pushed the brain to whisper awhile, this so-called writer’s block is not a big deal. Oh, there he is, sitting Head slightly bent at my father’s table I read, by heart, every word that comes out through his pen. And, in his young mind--- I feel once more, the muse I loved, glowing