Dying Mythology

You aren't a myth, a make believe creature; I see
you.  Gossamer wings that capture rainbows in
your mischievous face.  Tiny in stature, just like me,

you'll dance among the blooming garden.  I'll chase
you, but lose sight and give up.  But I always know
you'll be back to play with me the next day.  I see
your glistening paths twinkling in the night.

They'll say the lights are just the summer fireflies twinkling at me.
They tell me you aren't real.
They keep hammering it into my head until I believe
them.  My little houses I built
they replace with books of facts.  I don't see gossamer wings thanks to
them.  I've lost my sight of fantasy and traded it for adult eyes.

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