I like 
this being 
alone in
my treehouse 
flashlight in
hand finger 
puppets at 
the ready 
stories and 
spells about 
to conjure 
in the 
cauldrons of 
my mind 

No longer chipped
or made into 
mulch I acorn
crawled to the 
mountains where I 
rested amongst kings 
dug in and
grew alongside them 
I sapling stretched 
and reached higher 
pushed away green 
umbrellas and took
my place in 
sky I tree
and I grown 
remember all three
of those me

Is imagination gone 
took the last
bus to anywhere 
packed its bag 
and started walking 
down the street 
people it seems 
to me nowadays 
want to be 
told what to 
think rather than 
imagine what could 
be long gone 
are ghost stories 
replaced by ghouls 
who wander aimlessly 
looking for direction 
where to queue 
where did all 
the adventurers go 
oh that’s right 
on the bus 
buddies with imagination 

It’s the dark 
holes that haunt 
me now pits
of waking memories 
soured by time
and logic curdled 
by broken promises 
that bubble up 
like the gas
of putrid decay 
when will these
too sleep and 
take their place 
at the bottom 
of the lake 

Had I
known that 
this was
ever before 
I wouldn’t 
have had 
as this 
has happened 
only after 
had had
its way