Mark W. Lewis

Sit down beside me,

I’ll tell you a story.

Of beautiful women, 

And men who are bold.

 

The kind of a story,

To help us remember.

The wonder of childhood,

Before we grew old.

 

A story of Word Pictures,

Of sulfur and tin.

Of fern banks and forests,

 That you can hide in.

 

Of little brown people, 

As tall as your knees.

Who walk very quickly, 

Through doorways in trees.

 

Spires of moonlight.

Shells on the beach.

The soft, silent sermons,

The Butterflies preach.

 

A small, elfin maiden,

In spider web gowns.

Goes gliding right past you,

One foot off the ground.

 

The old, learned wizard,

Whose mist shrouded tower,

Watches his watches,

Chime hour on hour.

 

And wait for the wind,

To come running up fast.

And watch as his footprints, 

Go past in the grass.

 

So think of a feeling,

From when you were younger.

Now give it a color,

Or call it by name.

 

Then pull up the covers,

And keep your head under.

And smile at the darkness,

And know who’s to blame.

 

So if you can gather,

The pictures I scatter.

Like daisies in sunlight,

You weave into chains.

 

Then we’ll be the ones,

who will look for the rainbows.

While others think only,

Of clouds when it rains.