There is a charming little man
Who loves to take me walking through the garden of my
memories.
And he points to golden sunsets
and sunrises the
color of Jonagold apples….
He begs me pick a basket full of prolific wistfulness.
But I refuse
I will not hold his hand however much he beckons
For it is a sad enough fact that I uncloak my royalty and
agree to walk with him at all.
He whimpers when I leave him, walk unfinished
For he knows that I have seen beneath his charm
And have returned to Father’s House.
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