Fairy Dust

Chalk dust isn’t much
compared to fairy dust.
Glittering in the light
of a once cherished moon,
now forgotten.
Along with childhood dreams,
cast into the sky by the
millions.

Thousands and thousands
sent into the sky
forgotten, by morning.
A new day brings new hope
and new dreams.

They call them constellations, now
but they are nothing
except forgotten wishes.
Once cast upon the
first star seen that night
by the last few hopefuls
of our time.

The only thing that we still see
are shooting stars.
Dreamers that have passed on, is all,
trying to set at least
one new flame
in one new mind.
They haven’t forgotten us
so why should we forget them?

On rainy days they watch us
from behind trees
below bushes
and in the undergrowth.
Waiting.
Waiting for a little thought
that might just
escape.

The numbers on bedside table
alarm clocks,
set to ring in the morning,
say eleven, eleven.
Uttered once in a blue moon,
hopes.
Dreams, wishes, prayers.
Only, now,
an army of lonely
enigmas.