Go back.
The words rocketed through my wings like poison. I plunged earthward, unable to react.
Go back.
Rage burned my spine, leaving behind a sick numbness. I forced my wings into the rippling air to slow my fall. As the ground grew closer, I spied a narrow perch near the crown of a fir. I pulled my wings in, extending my long, thin toes and curling them around the branch.
Go back.

Dream

The dark shadow by the stream

The whisper of the budding dawn

The ghost standing behind the newborn faun

The last aging leaf in autumn

The first translucent raindrop fallen

The spring of young child’s life

The threatening voice behind the strife

The shadow of a crystal tear

The subtle whispering in my ear

For it was not even real

Nothing more then a distant dream

Dreams upon their gossamer wings
come drifing down upon us
white and sparkling
like falling snowflakes,
glittering
The form of some sprite
or elven-like figure
tiny feet barely touching the surface
the sill of the window
silent, they creep
their delicate features,
angled in expressions of kindliness,
mischief,
happiness,
caring
touch as light as baby's breath
or soft raindrops upon skin
or downy feathers
They hover, silent,
or dart playfully above

I've always wanted to have a lot of kids. My mom courageously bore six of us, eight if you count the two that miscarried. I always try to remember them, too. Growing up with so many of us was like having my own little group of friends. That's not to say we didn't have real friends over. Hardly. But we grew up so emotionally close to each other that the need for outside friends was dampened. I honestly can't imagine having any fewer than eight kids, be they my own or adopted as my own. Six would be the bare minimum. Eight might just do it.

I had a dream,
'twas fascinating:
it was joy,
it was fear,
it was hope,
it was fun;
it was was every thought and feeling
all rolled into one

and now for some reason,
I've awakened,
and found myself still here,
still living in this wondrous world,
of hopes and joys and fears

And the wind still sings,
it sings to me,
it says, always whispering,
'life is but a dream'...

I surely pray,
through night and day:
I hope I don't wake up.

Last night I had a dream
I wish had never ended.
I dremt I'd found the woman
my birth had taken me from.
We reunited, as before in heaven's vales,
but then my eyes were opened by the sun
and then the morning breeze.

I shut them tight again
to see her pretty face instead,
but all is faded now--I can't recall
but a trace, but a footprint left on
the seashore, left for a crazed lover
to guard from the waves, as proof
of the foot that left it long ago.

Definitely not one of my best pieces, but one of my favorites. A dream of a character from my 'baby story' (the one I work on consantly, but only let people read in pieces), inspired by a daydream of my own. It doesn't require much backstory, but if you'd like me to, I can give you a bit.

Anyway, enjoy.

A hall; a tall foreboding house of stone:
Set upon the lonely, stretching snow,
And there, by its rusty iron gate, I stood
With a tall, strange friend I did not know

“Come,” he spoke, and went on, through the gate;
I followed him, past quiet trees which stood
Like long dead sentries, menacing the path,
With blackened leaves and limbs of rotten wood

The door was large, and heavy, rough-hewn oak,
And beckoned us, with haste, to go away;
But still we made a cautious entrance there,
And I, with silent wonder heard him say:

Where do daydreams
go when they retire?
Do they nap upon my feet
waiting until I stumble over them
disguised as a russian spy,
a princess bride,
a heroine of yesterday?

Ageless and timeless
the dreams do not wither
but as of yet remain
chubby-cheeked and cheerful.

Footsteps gently fall
afraid to break the silence, shrouding
the noon sun in its blanket of
fading grey

This ruminating heart
wanders down its lonely path, visiting
the grave of long dead dreams
sleeping quietly

Ambivalent to awaken
these broken things so long asleep, and
reminiscing on these memories
lying still

The light that pours through open doors,
fails falling close to feelings, stored
among these things
aspired for