I suppose it isn’t politically correct to play cowboys and indians anymore. In my youth, every backyard was a testing ground for the latest cap pistol, and bow and arrow. In our innocence, we were merely playacting without regard to race, gender, or choice of weapon. How sad it is that we lose our innocence to a world filled with bad actors and scoundrels.
He played cowboys and indians
in the dirt,
and fearing nothing.
He was indestructible
and young,
and thought that pain
was for other people.
Death and dying
had no meaning for him,
as he navigated a world
filled with little green plastic soldiers
marching to a beat
only he could hear.
The old man
remembered the little boy.
He knew that the wisdom of youth
was lost in the knowledge of pain,
and living in a forest filled with dying leaves.
They deteriorated on the ground,
like ancient animals,
littering a landscape that became
more desolate over time.
Would the new growth of the forest
find a place in the world?
Would his bones become a part of it?
Old men think of things,
that young boys never do.
Old men wonder whether their young souls
will come back as old souls.
Old men die,
and no one knows if they return. 
