When I was young and yet a child,
I must admit that I was wild,
Doing things that children shouldn't,
And things I should I often wouldn't.
But even young boys with a vice,
Have a mother who is nice,
Who love their sons with all their heart,
A mother's love shall never part.
Now something that my mother did,
When I was young and just a kid,
She had a trunk and put inside,
Things I had made, no not to hide,
But to keep forevermore,
Memories on attic's floor.
I opened up the trunk last week,
The time had come to take a peek.
Now that mom is here no more,
And with the angels now does soar.
Within the confines of the trunk,
I must admit was lots of junk,
But at the bottom hid from view,
was an airplane made from glue
and balsa wood, it could not fly,
so poorly made to even try.
I thought back when I was young,
and from the rooftop I had sprung
out into space in hopes to fly,
then hit the ground, tried not to cry.
But now I fly on silver wing,
Amongst the clouds, where angels sing.
In seek of trunks on heaven's floor,
Where dreams reside forevermore.