once there was a little boy,
and by an open window
he’d pretend to sleep every night.
come rain, shine or squall,
he would always be faithful
to that window on the wall.
his eyes and ears
and all the six senses he had,
would forever dart in and out.
they would go out through
the iron bars, frolic among moonlit
shadows past witching hour.
they would gather seeds
of stories and fables,
and plant them in his little head.
some of them would grow
beanstalk tall, scrape against
the diamonds in the umbrella skies.
others would grow and sprout
magic flowers, and feed some fairies
and many leprechauns.
many a night he has woken up
to swear he saw marvellous creatures,
all of them friendly never threatening.
in front of his peering eyes,
flying saucers from beyond pluto
danced with strobing lights.
strange beings in cobalt blue
peeped and waved, alongside aliens
with green blinking tentacles.
the moon smiled, the stars giggled,
as his mind projected his images
on the curtains of the night.
never once was he scared
of the fearsome sights, and he valiantly
rode his stallion into brilliant black.
many mustachioed years later,
he’d lie on a bed next to a window
and see things only he could see.
somewhere something tells me
that every time he sleeps, he’ll always go back
to when the nights were full of art.
