Saturday, December 01, 2012

Imaginary, a poem


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

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