Chains of Dandelions
Childood was a happy requiem
that too quickly floated by.
Too soon did it change from
pastures of dandelion chains and daisy tiaras
to wilted flowers
of pain and tragedy.
Why can't I see the world through rosy lenses?
when tears, once wiped away, were forgotten?
I see it now in greyscale,
void of the colour my child's mind once gave it.
Wisdom is fine, but ignorance is better,
and I choose the child who believed in Santa Claus,
the ignorance of puppies, princesses, and happy endings.
I choose chains of dandelions.
