The milkman used to come up this way,

Bringing us his creamy milk, and stories, back in the day.

A dusty train followed him, rising up into the sky,

His buggy drove low, but his spirits sang high.

In my mind, I still see his horse-drawn car,

A class clown attempted murder today.

A mother’s little boy,

a child’s best friend,

a teacher’s beloved terror,

stood over the monster who raised his freckly faced son

like the animal he’d become,

clutching a knife.

It began with the fire’s havoc, then rained the wild water. Next came the dancing wind, then the fumbling forming earth. At first everything was peaceful but the elements did not get along well.

When you dream of becoming a writer,

You get stories embedded in your soul

Ideas of near and far-off lands,

And journeys down rabbit holes.