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Her Tree House
Nestled along the dancing boughs,
Among the dewy green canopies of youth,
A cedar tree house, her's alone,
Adored by azure scheming eyes.
In the ink of her pen she watched life pass by,
Finding nothing to write but of bleak rain and doubt.
He found her, and filled the pages with rhyme,
Now faded words in the depths of her diary.
Reminscing, dimpled hands clutched the rope ladder,
She longs for the simplicity of that haven!
As she dreams of dancing with the fireflies
When the world was as wide as the backyard fence.
He was just a dream not yet realized,
A heartbreak not yet felt.
Accented with age, homeward bound once more,
Diary pages filled through with beauty and pain,
In the cedar house she sits, lost in tunes of the past,
Hanuted by distant yet ever-near melody.
Entranced with the songs, she sits alone
Surrounded by the musk of forgotten lilac,
Whisked away in the memories of joy,
Finding ecstasy again in the souls of the stars