Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2019
Younger was I, perhaps, a tender age of nine
I can't quite remember, but young enough
to spread out my creative wings and fly in my imagination

Young enough to dwell in clouds of unknown lands and creatures born from my own mind
To notice reality's snap when my name is spoken aloud like the delicate crunch of leaves on a fall afternoon

Children are remnants of finite innocence

I was a child, when life was filled with simple moments
The kind of moments that remain freshly baked into your mind, never going stale

I recalled a fond memory of my uncle and I, when we drew beautiful farm animals
A summer morning, when the sky yawned a delicate yellow-orange and the sun stretched its light

Farm animals, such splendid creatures, a marvel to our eyes that reign superior beauty
He drew a hyperealistic horse with such fluidity that the page flowed with intricate detail and ebbed with subtle additions

In awe, I oggled at his work, amazed at the wonderful ability that he had to breathe life into a drawing
A man around his age approached us like a sheep that had wandered away from its flock

Unamused, he furrowed his brows at my uncle's creation and bleated, "Imagination is only for children."
Unperturbed, my uncle's earnest eyes leveled his and calmly stated, "I drew a horse."
The sheep man turned around to return to his flock, oblivious



Melody
8/16/19
Written by
Osiria Melody  19/F/California, USA
(19/F/California, USA)   
232
   Fawn
Please log in to view and add comments on poems