She saw the fuzzy granules…
Costumed pollen dusted capsules…
Imprisoned upon their stems…
As the morn’ began to break…
A problem there was sure to face…
Far flung savageries had wrought…
The Little Maiden’s spirit…
Way more than it had ought…
stored within the box
are the flintlocks of my pain
put away from childhood
with prayers they would wane.
Deepest regions walked she there…
Little Maiden through the air…
Ventured far from the path…
Never a whisper…
Never a laugh…
Afraid she was.
Whimsy and fantasy…
Contemplation and inspiration…
Avid logophiles and bibliophiles…
Hear my dissertation…
For picturesque dreams…
Are Heaven’s manifestations.
Through His mercies…
I bare my soul…
Thus this life…
Does unfold.
