In fields where laughter blooms like morning dew,
The children dance, a symphony of light.
Their eyes are stars in skies of boundless blue,
Their hearts untainted, dreams are taking flight.
The world a canvas, colors pure and bright,
With chalk and crayon, stories come alive.
Each day an epic tale of pure delight,
In lands where dragons, fairies, giants thrive.
With whispers soft, they cast their secret spells,
Imaginations vast as ocean's depth.
In every corner, magic sweetly dwells,
With every breath, they weave the dreamer’s web.
Their laughter rings like chimes in gentle breeze,
A melody that warms the coldest heart.
In simple joys, a thousand mysteries,
A glimpse of grace in every playful part.
They see the world through lenses free of fear,
Where every shadow holds a hidden charm.
They whisper hope in every listening ear,
And cradle peace within each tiny palm.
Though we may age and face the world's harsh grind,
These echoes of our past forever stay.
In children’s eyes, our lost dreams we can find,
A beacon guiding through the darkest day.
For in their innocence, we see the truth,
A purity that time can never steal.
The endless wonder of eternal youth,
A balm that helps the weary soul to heal.
So let us cherish every precious smile,
And guard these fleeting moments, ever dear.
For children, in their laughter, all the while,
Are whispers of a love that conquers fear.
About the Creator
Samson E. Gifted
SEG, is a talented writer, editor, and publisher known for his exceptional storytelling and keen eye for detail. With a passion for words and a commitment to excellence earning a reputation as a respected figure in the publishing industry.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly5 days ago in Horror
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