When I was younger
I thought that tree stumps
were fairy dining tables
I dreamt about inviting
guests to lavish parties
So I ate jam tarts
every time the sun set
And drank ten bottles
of Kool Aid for a bet
I didn’t regret a single sip
but I think the adult inside me
wished I did
Pressing on regardless
into an infinite described
by fluttering eyelids
like moth wings in moonlight
The shutters flapped open,
close, open, close
And the spirit felt known

The table in the stable
made the craftsman able.
What happens when the craftsman
Can no longer rhyme?

Do they pack their tongue in clay and cry?
Do they have moss growing on their backs?
It smells too sweet to be moss, but too sweet to be grass.
But then we said **** it, just light it up and pass.

And when the lights burnt out
So did my patience and I yelled at the moon in a rage hotter than the sun.
Then the heat dropped
And once again, I could see clearly.

They said that it would rain today
but for some reason when it didn’t

I was strangely disappointed.
Nevertheless, my jealousy pursued

like a jewel in the nightlight.
Revelling, repulsive, catastrophic.

The earth opened up and all the flowers fell inside.
They mixed with all the tar and soot and rust and then

made us sigh in awe.

In awe of how quickly a tough decision can be made
on our fates.

Suddenly, abruptly, snapping shut, an elastic
band on the door of the future.