In The Voice Of My Child Self

In The Voice Of My Child Self
He kept track of the moon and he pondered on the puddles
He wandered the trees searching for someone to kiss
There were stories in the evening about journey and death
And he talked about his hands as if they weren't his

He'd lay awake for hours trying to make sense of everything
The day ate the day, he never accomplished anything
Tendons and arteries that amounted to something
And that little something, everybody fears it's name

He remembered his past life by events and release dates
There were no Birthdays, no family, no people.
He feared the fires because they claimed his home
Now there's iron, and rope scars, and steel.