Harlequin

Vagabond Wishes

Counting shooting stars
once again.
One to be a saint,
Two to be a hero,
Three to feed the heart that screams wanderlust,
Four to shake the world
And leave despair agape in the dust.
Five to the twenty trillion variations
Of these aspirations.
that would soon be abandoned for decomposition

He brings his little wishes
Out for a stroll along the bushes
Showcases his hopes as if on a stage
Wears naïveté amongst those in savage.
Clock goes tick
tick
tock
and a stupid little boy's pipe dreams
have been trampled on
torn by the seams
by the wicked world.

love is war
he clawed onto his ambitions tight.
wailed and howled and wailed
for them to bloom and come true.
but the world continued its bloody game
tossing them to the thorns and branches.

torn, tattered,
absurd imaginations
Belong in another appassionato fairytale
but not here:
this world dehydrated of colour
a humdrum desert.

his hopes were dashed, childhood culminated.
but at night he still prays.

Please
Sleep under my bed in a sunless corner,
Wake at night to weave my quixotic fantasies,
Rescue me from haunting nightmares,
Protect my innocence and its sanctity.

but for now, go to sleep.