She runs, playfully mocking me,
Laughing, jesting, the lytling she is!
Blasphemy dies ‘neath her smile;
Tyranny prisoner in her folly.
Imaginings breathe air, come alive
She and her shadow chasing the tots
--over clouds and starry ganders
--under droplets of lucent dreams.
Play she, play I, close infants dear
Both eyes be mirrors to souls,
Then ‘lo (behold) mirrors are we;
Me from another time, some other soul
Light creeps under covers to shush shade,
The lytling escapes with her kins
--neath the cloudy mattress and adult ganders
--hidden and bearing the jar of lucent dreams…
Covered in shade’s cloak with her follies
Teasing and grinning as if won a feat!
The lytling, sweet lytling…
My childhood friend—the inner me
A contest entry
- The Day I Became... by Victory Gin.
1050 points, ended November 25, 2008, 9 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
feedback asked for, thank you.
Comments
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This certainly has a spry fay quality to it. I love how you ended this poem. Lovely.
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shush the shade... that was lovely
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