Not a winner

Unhappy little man, in his blue and red raincoat. 

Scurrying after his mother, who's clasping his hand. 

He is bereft of kite and boat. Wanted to spend 

the day at the beach, digging a moat. Built around

the unassailable sandcastle, protected by 

dragons later painted in pastel. 

He yearns, and dreams and hopes and flies. 

As the years tick by, mundanity wins, 

and the above shall die. 

But wasn't it splendid, looking back on those days... 

how the tears of youth were 

fittingly brave. 

For the things which do afflict him now are

doubtlessly more real, but somehow

he'd rather invite in that unholy terror

of once again being able to feel.