It was a mild day in the middle of the summer, not the type that glued your shirt to your back, but the type where the soft spoken wind whistled easy, breezy tunes if you weren’t too busy to listen. Me, being a kid, I was never busy.
The pencil soars across the black page
painting imagination, uniqueness
illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind
bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality
blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades
rainbows tango in the sky
This place, that place, there are so many in which I can be,
But I choose that one, the one where I can be free.
It can be a place where the sun shines at the crack of dawn,
A place that is so dreamy it can make me yawn.
This place is there for me night and day,