twinkling, sparkling...
the night sky is bustling
tints of silver mingling
fragments of memories dwindling
fingers tingling
walking and cobbling
a nostalgic feeling
as i stopped, idling.

We look for the helpers,
But no one is there.
Just goose steppers stepping
Their cruelty laid bare.
The giving tree is barren,
And everyone’s scared.
As we search for the helpers,
Through thousand yard stares.

I play in fields, those often forgotten,
Among blowing winds, from far begotten,
Dancing in wild daisies, as spring lingers,
Dueling shadows like swift gunslingers.

On the wind, I smell my mom's gingerbread,
And come racing home for a piece ahead,
Spice in her chiding, sugar in her voice,
Like her gingerbread, my favourite choice.

From the rooftop, I gaze at stars each night,
Listening to Dad's stories with eyes bright,
As he gently holds me in his hands rough,
Telling me those tales and making me tough.

And like passing clouds, those little days flew,
Reliving games, as woods from daisies grew,
Revisiting smells, from baked bread I buy,
Recalling tales, I gaze at the night sky.

Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.