I was a child in a storybook
With words and pictures running through my head.
My every action accompanied by a half-murmured commentary
That continued throughout those early years
Of light and warmth and love.
Sometimes the child in my story
Made someone to share those adventures.
A longed-for ideal.
And one day he came into being.
But with his birth everything
Changed, and the words and pictures became
Not mine. The sun disappeared
Behind the clouds and I
Closed the book...The story died.