Dying Dream

A story of a little girl…deprived of her dreams…working day and night and losing her dream piece by piece

In some little town
In a lonely nook
She makes magic
When she’s off the hook

That little girl across the street
The parlour maid and cleaner
On bread and milk she thrives each day
And week by week looks leaner

With chains abound
Her hands and legs
Her heart rattles with a dream
Withering away, for a chance it begs

She hides a brush
And some color in her apron
She uses a bark for her canvas
Blessed and preserved by the sun

And her strokes weave life
Into dead trees
As if from captive hell
A soul she frees

She can’t spell Picasso
Or gradient or texture
But with the brush and the paint
She’s on ecstatic adventure

And that little girl across the street
Goes back to bed with a lighter heart
Not because she’s happier today
But because another piece of her dream was torn apart…


Constructive and genuine appreciation and/or criticism most welcome

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