I am but a child. My golden locks
twisted in thick braids around my head;
I wear a crown of daisies. The flowers
always made me sneeze, but I thought
the pollen was fairy dust, so the allergy fits
were magic to me (There are far worse things
than itchy eyes).
I find solace in solitude; my only companions
are the trees. They speak wisdoms I need
to get me by, though rarely do I ask
for their opinion. They grow me like a
sapling- small and desperate for guidance
in this rapidly changing climate. Perhaps
loneliness is not an emotional response,
rather a way of life.
I feel as if I am everywhere at once
and nothing at all.
I am bloodthirsty while innocence
I grab fistfuls of petals and leaves, toss them
into open air, and watch as the swirling breeze
carries away the final moments of my immortality.