can you remember who you were,
before all the scripts for you were written
in indelible ink, black curled cursive
on obedient lined white pages,
replacing Rembrandt scribbles in fresh dirt
where you made five toed tracks to towers
that pierced the clouds, where you battled dragons  
your young flesh never singed, by their flaming breath  
your silver sword never blood sullied, by your slaying slashes  
that saved the world, until you fearlessly found other foe  
from which to rescue a world worth redemption  
before you learned to read
the menacing mendacity of truth  
writ by those who scoffed
dragons could not be slain  
the world was to be full of pain  
and your once great winged notions
were but moments of madness