I grew up building rose-tinted towers
To peer at the outside from.
I grew up with a blind sage for a father,
And a mother who painted
The World in strokes of color.
My Life ran on make believe,
Fueling more efficiently than gasoline.
Foggy days in summer time,
Blizzards in winter wonderland,
Turning wet tree stumps
Into magician playmates,
Mossy beards and mystery hands.
The prompt is fading fast,
Whenever I'm not dreaming.
To honor the dreams of dreams
Of the child from my past.
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