Youth is our first love, clouding judgment.
A doorway to enchantment,
shrouding the world in thankless roses.

Spying tenderness in heartless places,
we give it life with our passion.
Until it closes...

Adulthood dawns, Youth's door slams shut,
ripping away beliefs and paradigms;

Left unshielded and complicit understanding.
Left yearning for easier times.

Did you cherish that innocence,
basking in the naïveté of the young?
Did you relish the flame that ignited and invited
all of what was to come?

Were you ready?
Or did youth leave you undone?

With tears blurring the pencil marks because it’s raining and it reminded me of home. Retelling of a place I question whether it’s a memory or something I made up so vividly it could be real.

I am a writer who writes when the mood strikes me and I don’t put down my tool until everything has poured out of me. I write either every day or every four months depending on when the characters command me to tell their story. I am the type of writer who bleeds onto the page, weaves tales as intricate as my veins, and paints the image in the watercolor of my tears. I am the type of writer who writes when my heart has something to say.

When I met you, something clicked.
Like a skeleton key in an old lock, slow but sure.
Only it opened a door
to a room not ready to be lived in.
Dust of the past lay heavy in nooks that lay forgotten.
Cobwebs clung to keepsakes
kept locked away far too long.
Still, I let the light in.
I dusted the areas I was allowed to reach
and left a few flowers in my wake.
I wear that key, close to my heart,
in the hope that one day I may call it home.
I stop by to dust when I’m asked,
but one day I fear,
this key will become a key to nowhere.

@ Daydreamer

This post can be found at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads for Fireblossom Friday: Love