through the tape player, vandals of volume, static coming to wish for sweet dreams and then to perch in midair with the owls.

What ever happened to voices? What happened to Mama swaying across the room, tangled in her own breeze, cooing about God’s love and grace and wisdom for all his little children, his little children and not the world’s?

What happened to Dad’s wooden guitar that always, always collected dust-- the musical kind that performed in the sunlight by the window and then drifted away at the sight of his fingers?

in the garage, they say. In the garage where the car sleeps and crickets come in through the unnoticed hole, little crickets that are big burglars of silence.

Soon that little girl will be waking up, Running down stairs to tell a dream About flying in the arms Of the man on the moon.

“And you know what? His voice is big and wise when he sings in those deep, white holes called craters, but I wish he’d make it a little softer.”

Yeah, kind of old, but anyway.

O.O

I told you that you were made of epic win. This just proved my point!

...i really, really like that.

(: it's nice, and the best part is that it actually makes /sense/. (some poetry doesn't, unfortunately).

i love it! :3

Wow, that was great. I agree with CHARLiEFISH, some poetry doesn't make any sense and this one did. I allso love any poetry that deals with children or dreams. It was very refreshing to read. : )

Aw, thanks, guys.:)

OMG. :o I came here, mainly by accident and saw that topic of you... and now I have to say... it was totally worth it! :D

I love it! Really! My favorites:

❤

I love your writing style!

I completely forgot about this thread. haha. wow.:(

Thanks for reading, , my friend. <3

Thanks.:)