Oh, where is the beauty?

Why do I not write of that

that, which I love?

sunsets, stars, music, imagination?

It’s hard to stay there.

But I so want to go.

And stay forever, once there.

There, on the tips of faerie wings

I rest my dreams.

I long for the moment

a faerie complains

  that my dreams

    are, once again,

      too big

        for a tiny faerie

          to carry

            by wingtip.

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