I grew up building rose-tinted towers,

To peer at the outside from.

I grew up with a blind sage for a father,

And a mother who painted,

The World in strokes of color.

My Life ran on make believe,

Rather than on gasoline.

Foggy days in summer time,

Blizzards and winter wanderings,

Turning soggy tree stumps,

Into magician playmates,

With mossy beards amid mystery lands.

The prompt is fading fast,

Whenever I’m not dreaming,

To honor the dreams of dreams,

Of the child from my past.