Gifts like his are seldom real

Drifting oceans vast, unknown;

In dream-filled slumber

He plays in fields

Of rainbowed flowers,

Of nameless mammals,

In awe of wondrous how.

Numb to the pain

Of knowing hurt,

Dressed in layers

Of childish glee,

Squeezed in love;

Cold-pressed in joy;

He is and of this world’s blessed gold.

MT

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