Maybe we can just stop pretend dear fairies and start all over again.
And I won't ask you if it's OK.
I won't ask anyone at all.
I will step out into that outside world and hold a victory march past all my false starts.
Camille and Lily sacred souls will meet me there and let me mend my stolen heart.
Yet I must admit it in the end that fantasy and pretend cannot outlive the wounded lark.
Only wilting flowers would understand that poem.
A poem considered one who would close up not bloom and visit no one go no where at all like words gathered resembling leaves in the fall.
If you see that sparrow Remind her I am still waiting and tell her to find me.
A feather in the skyline tell her too to send me her poems when she feels empty.
I contemplate those who still measure happy wondering if there is some kind of code or justified routine that meets that channel.
Maybe happiness is over rated.
Darkness requires a lot of alone time.
All my cruelties so sincerely sorry.
Twas not till this moment that I understood the consequence of such failures.
Stopped only by me with only me to blame and like any delicate flowers I have known I fold their wings gently wishing I could dismiss it all but of course no.
Despite my efforts to see at times I am left with the blindness of sight.
How far can I reach? How much can be felt? I am not sure.
But I will consider the day measure it all with my eyes closed Camille and Lily fairies call watch ore and my fingertips will measure my way home.