The Wild Type.

“sleep as little as you can,

and if you must,

dream as much as possible.”

Elizabeth has a way of looking in,

And seeing all the pretty places,

We don’t have.

She has a way of saying things,

Words though merely dreams,

Hold true after the clock strikes two.

How she wishes the world wouldn’t pass her by,

In its attempt to circle the sun,

For her sun too has come and gone.

Within the spaces which time forgot,

She dreams and dreads two dozen paces,

For the shadow remembers not.

Elizabeth, she wanders near not far,

But the known paths sometimes trod,

More dangerous become.

The words of dreams are hers to mind,

From here to forever they trickle,

Steady hands fail her not, ink to skin put.

The summer breeze never felt so sweet,

As when across her eyes the colours danced,

And in that moment she understood.

Elizabeth knew the world was not for her,

Its ways were not hers and never would be,

The havens beckoned with whispered calls.

Towards the deep she ventured on,

The end of the world to see,

For if only longing could be put into words.

Elizabeth, oh Elizabeth, she has a way of looking in,

And seeing all the pretty places,

We don’t have.

For so long, I was certain that the world beneath me was solid.

Unbeknownst, I was actually living on an ice cube.

The melt has begun and things are steadily losing shape,

And it is here that I find myself - awaiting evaporation.

there once was an old woman who lived in a shoe,

she had three children, and another thirty two.

overcome by hunger, they eventually ate each other,

till the only one left was the poor old mother.

I will never be gone. definitely not forever.

how can I when you,

give me something to come back for.

you’re a part of me.

and you know me,

my obsessions hate missing pieces.