Another Me


I'm mostly not the me you see,
For inside, I'm a different me.
As different just as one can be,
As a butterfly to a white queen bee.

The other me is not real at all,
But made of the substance of thought.
The other me is not bone and blood,
But sounds from a songbird's throat.

I dance on the air, play debonaire,
My spirit laughs out loud.
I speak with God, count peas in a pod
And play with a gnome in a cloud.

The other me can float on a breeze
And talk to the trees or a flower.
The other me is not me at all,
But a spirit that dreams in a bower.
It ebbs and flows, like a petal blows -
(My loved- one's jokes are mean).
So much of me is not what you see,
But ethereal as yesterday's dream...

But a lively pain -
a sharp call of my name,
Can make me feel quite real again!

TALES


The spirit of adventure may sometimes take the form of words
which, coupled with the imagination, is unfettered and boundless.
In this medium one is as free as the spirit that lives in the soul; to create a character, a place, a time. This freedom is sometimes contagious and the reader too may be caught up in this web of fantasy; share, too, in the delight of the writer who sang his song in words.

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