Tales from the Treehouse
Back here in my room too soon, wishing I could be yellow but I'm red and silver flecked with white all over and it's burning up inside... do you understand? I hope so because I can still smell the fir fire on my coat and wish for things when I shouldn't and don't talk but think too much, knowing if I say all the things there will be no-one there to say it to. That is why, and you know I think but we're still left guessing all thinking differently maybe, un-knowing and always kind of lost, but, happy in limbo... until one day, I'll ask. But then it will all disappear like a fairy story that was read aloud in the day time because the patience was not there to wait 'till dark, going up like smoke; the signal lost in clouds, unheard... I've written about smoke before.