The Days of Old

A Mystic Poem by Chris Bunton

I remember the days of old,
when I crossed the fields alone.
When I ran the forests;
when I ran the trails,
in those days of youth,
in those days of sun.

I remember the color of life.
Everything seemed different.
There was a brightness to the light;
a shine, to everything.

I remember hopping those fences.
Going to those hidden places,
to see what I could see.
Those secrets of the Elders.

That disobedient boy;
that boy who never sat still.
That boy who still disobeys;
that boy who is free.

Do you wanna know where I am?
I am in the deepest forest alone.
I am around a campfire of stone.
I smell that smoke, with a smile.

I am safe because God is with me.
That fire licks the dark air.
It drives the chill away.
I smile to know who I am.