It's a peevish wanting that keeps him listening,
The last slice of guilt, and the knowing of being wrong.
It's only an unexplainable rupture of affection
Mixed with a delightful bundle of secrecy he calls trust.
But the drained mouth still says little in a battle against the heart.
With the knowing of the next man, but the willing of a hermit,
He longs for the unknown with a myriad of thoughts.
The unspoken words are spoken too loudly; the simple fruits for thought too ripe.
Where monkeys become apes, and where incredulous looks are given,
He waits, knowing that a rich grasp of illumination follows a heartbeat of skepticism.
The thought from a spark that results a wonder of grave intensity
Is enough ice cream for a boy’s hunger, but is the starting point in his race to wisdom.