Guileless Child We Think Poem by James McLain

Playing down a furrowed lined incased in head
is unmade bed all windows
to a soul.

Lifting shoulders burdens would not dare to try
and carry on this path of thorns whom
say they care.

Anology compares your mind to theirs grace
fares a better plate to rest my slice
of bread your host.

Yellow morning sun a cloud to bank the wisom
of some ink the pages would all
play a part this day.

Solitude of moonless shine thine sureal would
you find a clearing seamless
mist now dine.