There's an alien on Earth.
It steals into your home on
a breath of night air
from the direction of the
distant stars.
It visits your innocent,
young child
asleep in a gentle fabric
fort.
There's an alien in your
home.
It plays with your child's
dreams
and weaves through them
like twisting thread.
It learns to use the power
of sunlight
and blinds the dreamer who
dwells in the clouds.
It plants new seeds to
sustain itself in this land
but foreign roots remain
forevermore.
There's an alien in your
child's head,
but it is not what it
seems.
She traveled here on a
broken rudder
atop the currents of winds
she could not map.
She got tangled up in your
child's blankets
but tiny arms could not
pull her back out.
She was swept up by your
child's dancing dreams
and inside them found a
place like home.
She learned to cast light
on lucid landscapes,
and to nurture life in the eye
of the whirlwind.
She cared for the seeds of
imagination
and lit the hearts of their
blossoms like beacons,
to shine through the mind's
clouds like stars
who come out to play when
she slips away.
There's an alien in your
child's heart,
in their voice's strings
and the alcoves of their soul.
When you hear tales of a
dream-sprite Tinker Bell
do not cry out about
delusions,
but see them simply as
beautiful illusions.
An oasis might not prove to
be real
but there's no better place
to build paradise—
that holds towers with
girders of hopes
and houses museums with
tiles of memories—
in which both you and She are visible
as imprints across night and day,
from every rung of the polished ladder
with which your angel can touch the stars.
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