If someone ever inquired of her
why she so often lugs her home
in a small backpack to enter
into places no human thinks to roam;
She would tell them in great detail
of her love of the quiet, broken
only by a soft chirp or a cicada’s wail
and all the adventures, her personal tokens.
But most of all, she would say,
with dreamy eyes and a nostalgic voice,
that it was after all the stars that lay
in the night where she found her beautiful respite.
But in another world when night struck,
she pulled her blankets to her chin and sighed
as she looked from her window to stars high up
wishing they would to the dreamland be her guide.
Or rather, she could be an author,
a God of her own creation. her words,
the life-giver, story-teller, the maker and breaker
of all kinds of dazzling worlds.
She would take readers by their hands
leading them into different lands,
where they would perhaps see a Dragon’s lair
or in the moonlight glimpse a mermaid fair.
They would laugh and cry at the joy and plight
of those they could only ever hope to know
through pages of a book printed in black and white,
yet understanding them better than people in real life.
But in another world she kept down her book,
shaking her head to dispel thoughts that remained;
as putting on a smile, a mask, she stood
to meet people who could never her real self entertain.
She could also have found love on a quiet eve.
And in a week of knowing love, she’d let it into her thoughts,
two weeks into her smiles, three into her waking dreams
and a month later into her heart.
With each meeting they’d create new memories,
their love growing beyond fleeting soirees.
Until one day, hand in hand, they’d agree,
that no longer apart from each other could they stay.
But in another world, she locked her heart
from strangers she met and friends alike;
no complaints, her life wasn’t hard
just a quiet ride on a road fenced on both sides.