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Poem

Each day I wake as if I hold a sable brush in my hand
ready to paint upon a canvas what cannot be planned.
Or a pen to write about fantasies and adventures I find
in playground of imagination, I clearly see in my mind
when my mental imagery decides it wants to run wild.
I envision illusions of life as through the eyes of a child.
   This is how it works ~ 
Try to understand that we're only young until we're not
so, my creative image can be a battleship, a dreadnaught.

Some days I feel glum and paint a fence without a gate
then I blend many bright colors until I'm forced to wait
for my fantasies to find a way to escape from this slump
by painting myself on a horse, leaping the fence in a jump.
A dark verse takes me to the playground's furthest edge
where I dare to dangerously stand, teetering on a ledge
   This is how it works ~
I search the depths inside myself for things I would like
then become a child of four, telling stress to take a hike.

My brush strokes are bold when in good spirits and I fly,
but spilled ink splotches appear like tears when I cry.
I can paint in pastels when I imagine hope on the horizon.
There are no color rules or limits when my hues can enliven.
Limericks come to mind, so with a sharp pencil I start to write
fairytales of whales, or a rainbow appearing in the sunlight.
   This is how it works ~
I cry until I laugh because on my playground, I can do anything
The word 'can't,' doesn't exist, and every season can be Spring.

My inspirations can be motivated by the world around me...
A mirrored lake reflecting Autumn's colors in red maple trees
Mountain tops crested with snow that dawn turns bright gold.
It's all there when my inventive mind decides to take hold.
In my imaginary place, I'm a princess, an ogre, or a dragonfly
a feline with nine lives or anything I conceive in my mind's eye.
   This is how it works ~
Everyone lives until they die, fearing that moment of death
but in my playground of imagination, I never take a final breath

I've amassed an art gallery filled with varied canvased forms,
pastoral scenes of comfort and those with thunderous storms.
I never paint over the artistry my perceptions have created
for if my imagination has an ego, I wouldn't want it deflated.
I've written pages of poetry to fill a library packed with tomes
and each poem or story is a depiction of where figment roams
   This is how it works ~
I love until I don't, never admit I won't, and never take for granted
anything in playground of imagination where my life is enchanted.
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