Treasure Island

Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

The Fort


These precocious children
built this dream from the earth
the rest in trees
except for one who built his dream
from grass.
Tall golden brown and short green grass.
Every waking moment not in school.
Normal people never knew him there.
A secret place he'd there to be outside.
Safety was a warm cocoon from rain.
Other's walking by would talk
and speak of things no child would think to say.
Here he would hide from home and sleep.
Hustle up some change buy food to eat.
A short half a century has passed
and flown away.
Children built this dream from mother earth.

Submitted: Sunday, July 28, 2013
Edited: Monday, July 29, 2013

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  • Thomas A Robinson (7/28/2013 5:00:00 PM)

    I built many forts as a child.
    My secret fort, I had many.
    Where day dreams were reality
    all else came and passed.
    But I was always leaving all my forts behind
    I left along the way bits and pieces
    of broken dreams
    Now reality is nothing like precious forts
    from dreams my life is weened (Report) Reply

Read all 1 comments »

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