This World

Three days ago in a fog filled yard there was a girl, and inside her

was a soupy kind of darkness that ebbed away at her heart.

She played with a piece of grass in her hand and she waited,

half dormant, for something unknown but important.

A pinprick of light like a star twinkled down

from the branches of the maple tree above her head.

As it came closer, the girl's eyes were drawn upward,

and her breath caught in her throat; for the ball of light had wings,

and beautiful hair that glowed fuchsia in its own light.

It came to rest just inches from her face,

and smaller than a glue stick it spoke;

"This world is no larger than the tip of a pen;

it's beauty no deeper than your eyes.

The significance of this, as you might have guessed,

is your sadness will keep you alive."