Is It Poetry
These precocious children
built this dream from the earth
the rest in trees
except for one who built his dream
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.
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