At eight, I still believed
in happy endings, watched
enchanted as, wishes granted,
heroes vanished into the sunlit
blendings of twilight. I thought
love and fame and fortune were
a certainty of time, that rhyme
was a natural consequence
of speech and nothing
quite out of reach.
I am not eight
Poet's Note: The prompt to look back at our 8 year old selves, our dreams, ambitions, etc.