In a bed splashed by mermaids,
listening to the angels sing,
pulling on every heartstring.
Watching for fairies
and leaving gifts by the tree:
"If I tell them my name, maybe I'll be free."
Awake and unmoving,
gentle eyes greet a panicked mind,
soothed by the touch of the coldest hand.
The dead listen to the sorrow of the ******.
"Imaginative child, you'll grow out of it soon,"
I repeat in a mocking tone
and laugh with the moon.