A dream world, a vast expanse of blue
So vivid that the image of what is real
Blurs evenly with it until memory is faint.
The pictures mix with echo voices
That you're certain belonged no one
You've known, not even as a girl.

You begin to sink back into that girl
Who wore a dress of pure butterfly blue
That your mother swore to you was one
Of a kind, back when butterfly princess' were real,
And she still had that perfect, adoring voice
That it is now so breaking and wrenchingly faint.

Dizziness, if this were real you might faint
Away, instead you turn to see a girl
Watching you and speaking with no voice.
You focus on her eyes, points of hollow blue,
And plead with her to show you real.
This is your dream, you must know someone.

First day of school, you don't know anyone
And the scent of Crayola mingles with the faint
Odor of clean carpet, big kid scents, real
World scents. You catch the eye of the girl
Across the table, offer her a crayon, blue.
She smiles, and thanks you in a five year voice.

Pulling back, you realize that tiny voice
Was the second to bring you comfort, the first one
Being your mother, and from your lonely blue-
Dream haze it becomes logical that even faint
Images of mother and first friends (the girl)
Be present in sleep, telling us to remember what is real.

But in sleep, why do we want to see the real?
When you now feel only sorrow at mother's aged voice,
And ashes are all that's left of the crayon girl
Who from five until eighteen knew no one
Better than you, and all that are left are faint
Pictures of the sun-touched girl in butterfly blue.

The dream girl, though, couldn't understand why someone
Wished away real life, when it was filled with voices
Laughing, and the faint scent of Crayola blue.

- March 2001