Once ago, I lived in an endless kingdom,
where time oozed like honey leisurely drizzling from the
expansive hands of the sky, which encompassed my world,
greeting me with a transformed dimension of possibility and
wonder.
Extending my miniscule arm up into the colossal atmosphere,
I was unable to comprehend the depth of the universe,
my hand a mere speck of soil in the immeasurable world’s
vast garden of harmonious tranquility. One where I could devour
apples of creativity and knowledge.
Where laughter bloomed wild, petals soft as whispers,
roots deep in the soil of my dreams.
Gravity had no restrictions on my actions,
the sky was my canvas,
my mind the brush and my ambitions the paint.
Possibility was tangible.
But now, the garden has withered to a trifling
mound of hopeless flowers and
viscous mud, tied together in
a forest of shadows.
Rain cascades from the clouds,
which once made up my canvas, my dreams,
yet now feel just out of reach,
a ceiling I can’t touch.
Looking at the gray kingdom,
I can see a black-and-white, melancholic snapshot of
the world
I live in.
Childhood has drifted away,
a paper boat triumphing a perilous rising tide,
swept beyond the horizon that I believed was
undefined,
where the sea swallows secrets.
The air is thinner,
sharp like the cusp of a new beginning,
cutting through the softness that once used to
cradle me.
Within my heart,
a silent war rages,
impelled by my constant heartbeat,
an everlasting sign of time passing.
Beneath the surface,
a fault line emerges, each tremor another shift,
another fracture in
the person I used to be.
The world that once whispered
in vibrant, shimmering colors
now speaks an unintelligible
language.
The sky is no longer a canvas
to fly dragons or sail pirate ships through
in pursuit of buried treasure.
All that’s buried now are my dreams.
I miss the days when monsters
terrorized me from their shadowy territories
beneath my bed.
Now they’re made of silence,
heavy as wet wool wrapped around my chest,
impeding my breathing.
Magic has become mirrors,
reflecting questions I cannot answer.
This space of adolescence,
the gap between who I was and who I will
become,
feels like standing on a bridge made of mist,
each step dissolving behind me as I
take a step forward.
Carrying the apparitions of my childhood as
stones in my pocket,
I am restricted by the heavy weight of
what was lost
but too precious to let go of.
I am a tree losing its leaves,
stripped bare by a season
that came too soon,
unsure if spring will return
or if I’ll remain forever
caught between the light and the dark,
trapped on the bridge of mist,
in the gray, autumn landscape,
restlessly waiting for the dawn of a new day.
A seed still sleeps within me,
embedded in the deep soil of my heart,
a quiet promise
that one day,
I’ll learn to bloom again.
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