I expected it to be gradual,
Like feel every day of my life,
Watching the sun rise then sets,
But then I become 25,
After a nap the length of my childhood.

Once upon a time I was guided to walk,
To learn in school with a teacher,
With classmates to learn with me,
So I learned better through them,
With some friends I had fun with.

I used to write so much,
A lot of thoughts with little words,
So smart, so creative, so brave,
But then I got here,
Barely spilling time to be me.

Why do I feel so empty,
When I have a life so full.
A love strong to waive my mistakes,
A home to keep other worries out,
And a job to do that pays well.

I travel and dive to the oceans,
I drive to the far high roads,
I fly to more islands,
But then I go home and think,
Why am I still sad?

Maybe this is growing,
The uncomfortable phase of consciousness,
When you think more of the things to do,
Than just doing it,
Always with fear of getting it wrong.

Because for the first time ever,
You are alone and fully responsible,
For your whole being,
And it is scary,
Growing up is scary.

Tonight I will have my last dance
for this is my last chance
before I bid this whole world farewell
I wish for one last dance under your spell

When I first saw you it was as if hummingbirds sung
a familiar rhythm, always on the tip of my tongue.
It was like a pull of my soul
So now I wish for you to make me whole,

I wish again to hear the soft chimes of your laugh,
fleeting yet haunting like wind through glass
all whilst my heart pounds like a shaman’s beating staff.
I wish for the silky fabric of that midnight blue dress
to once again be under my hand’s caress.

A message for my lady in blue
Tonight, I wish to see you,
and if you will grant me entry into your trance
Let me be your last, your final parting dance.

The midnight breeze escorts your pace,
Grace in motion, my soul’s quiet praise.
Might I dare to ask, if true,
Who is the maiden with mohawk hue?
I cannot bear to meet her gaze,
The fairest face that steals the haze.

Paint peeling from the window sill
Long legged lady walking,
In such a way
All frail like a mouse without its tail
She wishes not that of a picket fence
But that of lattice.
So that each time she gazes out
Into her garden
She is reminded of bramble pie
Seeing her mothers eyes
Who’s spirit lies in oak
Samaras floating down into her hair
Twirling the whirligig between her fingers
Trailing with gentle fingers
The mid ribs of little sprites wings