You out grew me, your imaginary
friend, left me behind with all the rest
of make believe and childish ways and, Oh,
I would that you were real. As do I.
Sleep and dreams are what remain, a closet
of forgetfulness, of frayed sock-monkeys
and princesses. Shall I play the prince
or return to yarn, unraveling
in the darkness? Shut the door; your choices
were all made before you ever found me.
Stephen Brooke ©2012