Lost

What is lost in our steady decline
Is not written on the skin in prose
Or felt in the bones and their grinding decay
It is in the slow and sudden loss of anticipation
For things just beyond our ken.
So lost are we in practical things
We forget the magic we hold within
And the world that knows us tomorrow
Will never guess the wonders
Throbbing beneath our skin
Or the secret places we once saw everywhere.
It is essential to never lose such wonder,
But every trudging day, it slips farther away
Until suddenly we are all grown up.