The moon was silver, but some would say white.
It hung like her coat in the closet.
I slipped it under my tongue, so I'd fly
to Dreamlandia on the next comet.
It calls like a friend on the line of a phone–
"I'll be there in less than an hour."
Drifting like tires–to a second home–
on a road lined with evergreen flowers.
The sun peers through ribbons that dangle from clouds,
the grass is redder than cherries.
The wind ties music in bows like the backs
of the dresses on fire light fairies.
There, only tears come from laughing too hard–
but everything, kind of, seems funny.
You dance through the sirens of birds from afar.
Your mind and your ears drip with honey.
It snows in the summer–but not on the roads–
the kind that dips houses in sugar.
They said if I stayed, I would never grow old–
so maybe Dreamlandia took her.
Cause she won't get older–only her stone.
But maybe she knew that'd be better.
I'll chase her moon shadow–if only she'd known–
I'd be searching Dreamlandia forever.
About the Creator
Flora
𝒯𝑜𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑜-𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 W𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇
𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣
@ꜰʟᴏʀᴀꜱ.ᴀᴜʀᴀ
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