Taking Flight – A Poem

When the darkness clears,small

I am flying through the sky.

Though I know I am asleep,

I am more awake inside the dream.

Underneath me I can feel muscles

moving up and down with the wind.

I can hear the flap of wings

and see the flash of purple scales,

shining like jewels in the moonlight.

There are sparks coming off of

the scales and they float through

the darkness like stars.

I feel the dragon begin its decent

and wonder where it has taken me.

It sets down on the grass softly

and I slide off of its back.

I look around me and, through the shadows,

I see the home that I lived in as a child.

Its curtains are closed and there

is no one home, but there is a light on inside,

as if the house was expecting me.

The dragon urges me forward,

pushing open the front door with its tail.

I slip inside quietly, afraid to see what

lies in wait within the darkness.

I can hear the sounds from the memories

that are encased within the walls,

the torment that these walls encased,

hidden from the world outside.

I take a step into the house and a breeze

follows me inside, bringing purple stars

upon it. As I look at the stars,

they fall in a path leading upwards,

footsteps appearing on the wood

as if I had already walked this path before.

I slip up the stairs, careful to step

on each footstep. Each time I do,

the sound of bells rings through the air.

The footsteps lead to my old bedroom

and the door is already ajar.

I stand in front of it and place my hand

upon the wooden surface.

I see myself as a young child and wonder

where that boy went. I feel an answering

beat inside myself and know that

I carry him within me.

Inside, the room is much as I had left it

And I head to the closet to see

If my box of treasures is still there.

The box begins to vibrate and hum softly

When it feels my gaze upon it.

I approach the box with trepidation and

anxious anticipation. I open the box,

its wood worn smooth after so long,

and look inside. Lying nestled at the bottom

of the box, on a bed of purple felt,

is a pencil. It’s yellow and has a pink eraser.

My name is written upon one of its sides.

I remember this pencil. I wrote my first story

with this pencil, wielding it like a sword on the page.

I pick it up and it starts to shine when it

comes into contact with my skin.

Purple light, so reminiscent of those stars,

begins to shine out from it and I can see

words floating through the air, words that

it had written. Soon, my bedroom is filed

with the words of all the stories I wrote here,

the stories and the words were my escape,

my safety, my refuge, my salvation.

I hear the roar of the dragon outside

and run to join him, the pencil still

spilling out words and light.

Now it’s letting loose words from stories

that came after, novels and sonnets,

poems and stories, poems and prose,

so many words and each one a joy.

Outside, the words begin to float up

into the air. The dragon gives another roar

and lets out a stream of purple fire.

I run to it, clutching the pencil

in my hands. The dragon lowers his head

so that I can climb aboard and then

he takes flight. We fly up into all of

the words I have written, every syllable,

every letter. They are like clouds in the sky,

like smoke upon the water.

As we fly further, away from what I used to be

and towards what will be, I see more words

shining in the distance. These are gold in colour

and I know that they are words that

I have yet to write for my story is

far from done. I urge the dragon onward

and when we enter the glowing cloud of words

it is like entering the sun. The dragon

give one final roar and when I wake,

there is a pencil clutched in my hand,

glowing softly and pulsing with

soft light.

 

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