Somewhere, a child no older than seven, hops up from the chair they were sat in and makes a calm start towards the door.
They take in all that is around them as they walk, the cream-coloured walls, clear windows, light pink tiles, glittering purple handles and the light blue doors covered in living butterflies that seemed to shift and shimmer in the light.
As they walk reality melted away, bit by bit, like a candle slowly burning on a high shelf.
It matters not to the child, for they know that what they think is the most powerful of all. Stepping outside, all is calm, the trees are green and the sky blue… or is it? Look again, are the trees really trees? Or are the round leaves that were once thought to be a part of the tree, actually tiny mushrooms, slowly growing, changing.
The child watches as the mushrooms move and ever so slightly start turning brown. The conclusion is made that it must be winter for that is the only time things turn brown without being completely dead.
Up a path the child goes, walking to the end of it. When they turn, the path is gone and in its place is a small toy train, covered in every different colour and shape, and chugging along seemingly on its own.
The child steps into the train, a feat that would be normally considered impossible, but normal is just what is familiar is it not?
YOU ARE READING
Poems...
PoetryMmnhmmhnmmn..... words but honestly I've moved to Ao3 and I only come here to publish my shity poetry, I should get a therapist but I cope like this instead :p
