Moon Child

In his eyes were planets,
They escaped from his pencil without colour,
The grey shadows of his imagination,
Drifted in a silent galaxy of stars,
Okra moons passed by,
In violet skies full of silver eyes,
He tried to stare at the printed words,
Tiny people told him to return,
"Stop dreaming!" They said,
But without dreams
he was grey as his pencils,
Heavy as black lead,
Without dreams,
Numbers and pages,
Words could not float away,
Lost in his violet sky,
So he dreamed on and on,
And left his grey shadow on the faded desk.


Blogger Russell Ragsdale said...

There's a victory in these lines! Experience has taught that it is often a painful and expensive one but, to once again see that the victory is larger and more populated than our lonely lives, was something I was certainly needing!

2:36 AM  
Blogger Cate said...

Beautiful poem. I love the "okra moon" imagery. I'll never look at okra the same way again.

7:23 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Thank-you Cate

8:04 AM  

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