Down the rabbit hole
Such a strange place
Into a world
Were your gone with no trace

Down the rabbit hole
Oh wouldn't it be fun
To leave your life
Be free and run

Down the rabbit hole
My final dream
To meet with the white rabbit
And become a team

Down the rabbit hole
A silly wish of mine
Were you fear you are mad
But there, mad is fine

Down the rabbit hole
'Tis merely my own mind
Were dreams and ambitions
I there, do hope to find

Take my hand

And watch me go

To places that are unknown

Follow my feet

Under this bridge

Down the rabbit hole

To meet again

Just like Alice

Lost in wonderland

She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…

Alison Wonderland.

She said, I’ll look for Wonderland
I’ll find it in the snow
I’ll find it in the setting sun,
I’ll find it in a rose
She travelled every which and way
up every staircase to
the promise of a land so vast
full of hearts and tales so true,
but the farther that she wandered
the more she realized
that Wonderland is not a place
but a certain state of mind.

So she sat under her Bodhi tree
and waited for the leaves to fall.
She waited for the silence
and she waited for the dawn;
she waited for the rain to come,
so wet and wild and blue
to cleanse her of the pain she had
mistaken for the truth.

And time grew thinner than a ribbon
and the branches grew so bare
and she found that as her burdens lifted,
so did all her cares.
And when the spring-time came again
as the fates guaranteed it would
she found the birds still singing songs
of everything that’s good.

And no longer were the branches bare,
no longer was there pain—
but now just brilliant green leaves of light
waltzing in the rain.

And she found a new seed sprouting—
one of madness and of love,
and as spring paved the way for summer
she heard the golden secret buzz.
It was a child—no, it was a lamb,
or maybe the Mad Hatter she heard say, that
“Madness is the same as love,
and both just want to play.”

A blanket of white on the ground.
The same covering the trees around.
Wind blowing the snow in my face.
Honestly, I love this wintery place.
It's home to everything I know.
In January, all we can see is the snow.

I can only imagine
the beautiful canyon
filled with the towering
trees as high as skyscrapers,
where the animals run free
on the leaf-carpeted meadows
and blooming flowers dancing
with the breeze of the wind,
in the golden glow of the day.
This enchanting wonderland
is the perfect place to bury old
memories, ponder on the
mysteries of life or to just cry
in a quiet, comforting place.

i heard him call me through the wind
and the smell of his scarf lingers around my neck.
he grabs my frosty fingers
and warms me up with an embrace.
standing outside starbucks,
waiting for his apple pie and my hot choco.
"Let's get inside, it's warmer there," his breath dances in the cold air, arms encircling around me tighter.
I shake my head and snowflakes melt against my beanie, head against his chest, hearing his clumsy heartbeat.
"No, being alone with you here in your arms is warm enough for me."

I’m no Alice in Wonderland,
But I am more like the Cheshire Cat,
They say I am more deranged
Than the Mad Hatter’s hat,
They say I can be quite rude
Like the Queen of Hearts
And like the March Hare
I sometimes nervously fall apart,
I’m no caterpillar
Blowing smoke rings
But I might as well be same to them all,
Because I’m madly curious about things.