The bell has rung, the kids have left and now,
All that remains is the walk home.
A walk through places never before seen,
And which will never be seen again.
For this is where the children play.
Enter here, a world filled with wonder,
A world with guns and bows and cars and planes,
A world of dragons, kings, a world where dreams
Are real, where imagination reigns.
Remember, to stay here, a child you must be.
For in this world, reality means little,
Beliefs mean even less. What you know to be true
Is automatically false here. This is a place of
The mind. Your thoughts become what's real and that
Is the gift of the child. Their reality is thought.
The goons we kill, the cars we race, the guns
We shoot, are real, as real as real can be.
We bleed real blood, rescue real princesses,
Wear real armor, ride real horses, rev real engines.
For the children, its all so easy to forget.
But then, darkness falls, or mother calls,
And the thoughts are suddenly disappeared.
Dinner! Oh boy, hamburgers tonight, they think;
The dragons now are gone, but not for long,
For tomorrow, the children return again.
This poem was written for a college poetry and fiction class, back in 1988.
Last Modified: 08 Sep 1998
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