The lights fall 

And my eyes turn inward, watching

As bits of pieces of fantasy turn to 


Credits roll, and I am reminded of 

A time when I could believe that this 

Was the future, and that beings

Were made of light and 


But as my feet dig into the shag, 

As my body carries itself not on 

a lightbeam, but on the sturdiness of 

the ground beneath me, it becomes

Apparent that I am not that

child anymore. 

The years have passed and flitted

Through my palms, and now, 

I live not within fantasy but within

the coolness of hardened magma. 

I step into the rain. My eyes widen 

again as I let the current flow anew, 

no longer bouncing inside of the

frame of a television screen. 


This poem is about: 


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