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Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Streetlights

My bed lay underneath the window,
with a clear view of the street.
I would always look at the streetlamps,
and count cars instead of sheep.

Was I, so young, afraid of burglars or robbers?
Absolutely, no. 
The night held too many promises,
Of adventures and heroes.

I would imagine my stories,
Taken from my book that day.
I would put myself in them,
As always the heroine who always knows just what to say.

The Night was my chariot,
And it took me to a far away place.
Anywhere, and anytime,
I was in control of the time and the space.

Under my window,
safe in my bed;
but I was really somewhere else,
At least in my head.

And when I opened my eyes
I would see the streetlights;
And know I would come back to my adventures
Always the next night.

So young, not in control,
I loved my bed by the window.
Because I was always staring out and dreaming beyond,
It was a habit, I learned, I would never outgrow.

Each night was an adventure,
Each night a release,
I was in control of my life,
And it was how I found peace.

That’s why I loved my bed by the window,
And spent each night watching the streetlights, (Even when I was grown)
As they drew me, and took me,
To a place that was all my own. 

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