Sparkatale

They read a book
In order to dream
But I
Can dream awake
Writing my own stories
By heart…

Sounds to me, symphonious
An orchestra of reality
Plays song notes
Drums in my ears
A multitude of melodies…
No composition sounds the same.
Like characters
Unique…
Abstract concepts…
Fabricated by a creative soul
Who is rumored,
Never seen.

Sights are illustrations
That no one sees alike
Every blink,
A new page,
New world to behold.
Spectrum of colors
So many seen
But so many obscured
Invisible
But existing
Floats in space unknown.

Characters
Claimed imaginary
Are most real of all
But left in blinded corners
That kill them over time.
Characters
Claimed reality
Just alike,
Die in similar manners,
We all end up the same.

A storybook spirit
Pulses in this body
Held in confines of mortality
Writes a plea in
What she does
Sends a prayer to the
Writer,
Grant me eternity…
Immortality…
Etch me in a stone
And let me dwell here
In my storybook world
Always…