wooden swords waved against the breeze,
small hands clutching imaginary maps tightly,
their steps stomping on nameless lawns,
the world belonged to their freedom now.
behind fences, mothers sipped cold coffee,
while fathers stared at afternoon ceilings,
but here on the pirate ship of dirt,
golden chests gleamed within the mind.
"X marks it!" a yell broke shadows,
twig flags raised high above battle scars,
their dog barked, the loyal first mate,
guarding dreams in the dandelion jungle.
the treasure hoard? an old tin box,
filled with buttons, marbles, a shiny lighter,
and laughter ruled the kingdom of dust,
uncharted maps folded into the dusk.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 12th, 2025 05:42
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
The innocence of childhood provides joys and imagination that age erases leaving us looking at a blank ceiling drinking cold coffee. A wonderful write Gray and a fave
Thanks Soren I agree our childhood sparked our imagination
You are most welcome Gray
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