Imaginary butterflies that danced around my head in a halo,
Flowers and twigs and leaves
That stuck out of my hair
And little kisses from the sun
That people called freckles.

Hands that were powerful enough
To open doors that turned into portals.

Eyes that saw fairies and magical things.

Ears that heard talking trees.

I was a kid
Idealistic and dreamy as could be.

Then I grew up
And somehow the stars were dimmer.
Summer didn't smell like adventure
And winters snow was just ice
And no longer glitter.

Swings didn't make me fly
And slides weren't a dragons tail.
I was just a girl that believed in things that weren't ever real.
With a heart that beats still,
Wishing to believe that it'd all come true
But more than anything
I just wish that sometimes
I could age back.
Maybe only for a little while
Maybe forever.
Just wish I hadn't thrown my imagination down the hatch.

I think your name has always been etched into my ribs
To mark the property it holds...

My heart.

I'm the type of person
That if you never declare your love for me
The way the sun shines it's love on the flowers
Then you will never know what it's like to smell the roses
And I will never be able to tell you
How desperately in need I am for water.

I used to eye her more than books.

She had good looks
and for me
in the library
she killed the dullness of patience
the stifled air of silence
with her lips' hidden smile
that was quite a diversion
from pouring over yellowed pages
all the while.

In the garden I sought my chance
but she resisted any advance
telling me it's not her
I needed to be in my mind
but a job I must find
for couldn't be raised a family
merely loving in the library.

I think she gave me love
when I needed a job
but by the time I earned the bread
she was already married.

Once I thought of her as Miss Giving
but now as I look back
I have serious misgiving.

Each night is
precisely set
like a  gem
within  a dream.
Immersing in
the fluid grandeur
of darkness,
the night
swings  around it,
when one
looks back---
the day has
already become
a past dream
in an irretrievable realm.
The excesses
darkness commit
in a frenzy
in the night's geography.
excites me.without an end.
And what the moon
does to annul the
handiwork of darkness too
fascinate me.
Night is the story
of contrary crafts
calibrated to perfectly fit.