Mysteries of Youth
written when I was thirteen.
Are there really gnomes or nymphs,
or dragons or dwarves or elves;
or are they merely dreams we write,
in books on dusty shelves?
Are unicorns the blind man’s horse,
magicians the fool’s belief?
Was that truly pixie dust,
or a gently falling leaf?
Are the mysteries of my childhood years,
lies from teasing friends?
Just dream and rest your aging fears,
you’ll find out in the end!
