A night of lying, awhile
And you'll lay wither further asleep
Though Nashville star will impart
Where a toad her nonpareil but torrent
Will a string of vapor hit sitting president
And ready their maquiladora in this proud forest of thought.

like an angel , who fell from the sky, your smile on earth, makes people high, honey eyes, with long wings, looking at the sky, that is full of lies, everything that you do, is made out of  *love

call it
whatyouwill
there's {no} room for
shame
that-slipped-through
a. long. time. ago.
dear.
she's> taken> up; with
pride.
each/ does/ so/ well/
To
stay _ out _ of _ your
sight

Once when I was young,* I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just *fly away.  

   I learned early on
               That not everything we're told is true
               The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind
                    The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure
      Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods
                And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
         Play time was replaced with study time,
             And before we knew it, it was time for work
                      We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth,
      Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going
                                              Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight,
              And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun
                       But to tell the truth, sometimes,
     When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities,
         I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet
    Hoping it will let me *soar

We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.

She likes to blow up balloons
Matching the colors
to fit her mood
From envious greens
to the saddest of blues
Sits in a corner
blowing  balloons

From runaway yellows
to angry reds
All of the colors
leaving little left said
Blowing balloons
to the thoughts in her head
Till there are no feelings left

Part of you cradles a star
that's why the Sun loves you

your dust is cosmic
your spirit eternal

the light of your star
a heart made for love