Wednesday, November 5, 2008

The Falling of Illusions

The first cool breeze brushes my face
An alarming welcome back to the season
Back to Pussy Willows and Queen Anne's Lace
"Welcome home," lies the wind
To a home that exists in a girl long gone
A girl on the old wooden swing

The whispering liar plays with my hair
That once glided carelessly through the air
The crunching leaves snicker with bare feet
And surround my senses with laughter
With love, and warm apple crisp so sweet
Golden trees illuminate a visual memory
Of Mom, of the lake, of a lost family
And I can't help but linger in the illusions
Of a time made up of innocence and mystery.

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