Ballad

I saw Lily sat on a wooden rocking chair
Unstable and old, it was perfect for her.

Moved by the creaking chair song,
Lily dreamt of a willow tree
weeping grasses of pale green.

“The moon is dying,”
whispered her mouth to the invisible bird
perched on her pasty shoulder
of safety pins and rainbow threads.

Lily’s feet flew up and down,
barely reaching the dampen land.

Silenced by the cricket choir,
of soft hummings from old oaks afar,
she blew a note, sang hopes for daylight.

Clutching on yesterdays,
Lily sinks beneath footsteps.
An endless meadow amongst troops of feet,
toes swimming in the cool air

“Pretty,” her eyes began to think
as pink turtles race around.
“They’re my favorite,”
with glassy eyes she lets out.

A yawn creeps in her throat.

“Not now.”

Too quick for a final once more,
the ballad ends.

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