Are you disillusioned because the world has gotten worse?
Or has the world gotten worse because you're disillusioned?
Was it ever beautiful, spellbinding, full
of magic, fresh,
or were your eyes just kinder then?
Were you under the spell
of youth?
Did you believe
in fairies
and princes
and happy ends,
and the pale pinkness of spring blossoms -
a blizzard of them in the parks,
the alleys littered with unblemished petals -
the suffocating, breathtaking ecstasy of possibility:
this possibility of fruit,
of a love so great you'd have to call it
God?
Did you smell like a flower, then, too?
Were bees inebriated?
Did honey trickle down a brighter hue?
Is the world wilting,
or
are you?
Writer Between Worlds 