His record’s clean, as pure as his soul
His world revolves around a bright light
All he knows is to cry and laugh
Without a clue of the things in his sight
He knows no difference between black and white
His eyes filter out the grey
He embraces the world with utmost joy
He doesn’t care what anyone says
His being bursts with potential
His history has no rights or wrongs
His vision is innocent of scars and paints
But a pen will hit him, before long

And it’s upon the parent to let him bloom
It’s upon the writer to enhance the beautiful white page
Or to spoil it