I don’t remember a time
when my imagination didn’t have a yen for flight.
I was always the odd sprout in the cultivated flower bed.
I suppose it was easy to dismiss my fancies
as yet another song of a space cadet,
solitary and adrift in an imaginary orbit
because silence beckons more than playground noises do.
But I never saw myself as afflicted
when in my mind I had adventures
as grand as any Miyazaki heroine.
Having myth in the blood isn’t a disease;
it’s an advantage.
As an adult I’ve thought about the past,
and decided I’m happy for my daydream addled youth,
even if others saw me as peculiar, and still do.
My ukiyo-e colored internal landscape
would have been far poorer without it.
Any ink child of mine
would be a stunted and malnourished thing
if not a steady diet of faerie song.
Song Choice: Daydream Believer by the Monkees
This poem was inspired by a prompt given by Imaginary Gardens with Real Toad: A Poem of Our Own (Create poetry with the titles of our previous poems. Hey Magaly, does 13 work for you?)