I am dreaming of time,
of simplicity and nursery rhymes.
Time is my storybook
like Peter Pan or Cinderella,
where innocence lives forever
and love and life are of happily ever after.

I talk to time,
a story not long too tell.
It sits at my bedside and holds my hand,
not as a lover,
but as a parent helping me cross the street to play on the monkey bars.
Time holds my hand like a playmate,
like a friend in Red Rover.
We are the children,
asking time to come over.