That day when I was seven, or perhaps maybe nine

It doesn't really matter the age

Life had become a little more than a calm lake

and had swept me up with it's tide

I had thought little things that would become unimportant

Maybe I still think the same

But I don't think I can do it

That day with stained carpets just right out the doorway

no door, the hinges left empty

of the wood's embrace

Later on in history

That day, with snow that coated the ground

like a sweet frosting except it bit

Bit my hands and my arms

my only protection a blanket

I hadn't known why, or maybe perhaps I've forgotten

To be alone, to think again, but perhaps it wasn't worth it

But I wish that those walls that kept me inside my little globe

would've opened up and into the woods

would I find family I would love

But the car rolled by, and how then did the tears

that threatened to break once again did

my cries were of a feral beast

they had found where I had hid

I prayed that they would walk away and leave me to my doom

to the cold that calmed my head

And the place I'd live too soon

But of course would the eyes that watched me

Leave me in such cold days

I'm left wondering if I could go back

to when the stars were still lit

Where god would wake from his "little" nap

And tell me

was it worth it?