One of My Rues

If only I could bring back the days when I was twenty-one, and could choose who I wanted to be with until eternity, I would definitely pick a poet. A poet: who could make brown leaves into green, who could bloom drought dried flowers, who could make haunted woods a castle, who could change my tears to sweetwater, who could dance words through my face, who could sail me in sloops of smiles, thru his pure loving poems; but my rue is too futile-- these are wasteful wishes can't be granted just reverie, for it's more harder now and hurtful to twist. If only I could bring back the days...