Inner me

Inner me was a child
Some time, long ago time past.
Abandoned, forgotten,
It gets bored.
It starts up and fiddles,
Looks at drum sticks with disdain,
Does not care for the teddy,
Barely remembers the one:
It was just plush;
But it enjoys fruit, it always has;
So it makes fruity images and colors,
Would leave only the sky alone,
The color is one.
The first you get to know,
In the garden, look straight ahead.
Well, you cannot blame the body position.
It just is so, and you learn.
I am. It is. The sky.

Copyright © Teresa Pelka