There is a field where a sycamore grows
Whether it be day or night, one could say it glows.
It is a peaceful place for thought;
A place where all is quiet, my own little spot.
I love this place, enough to have said
That I wanted to rest here when I'm dead.
While I'm here, I feel sort of free;
A type of magic that affects only me.
Because there, I could truly be alone.
Sitting at the tree; my own wooden throne.
And here was my kingdom; seen from a palace so grand
That I could look all across the land
Now I grow old, as most rulers do;
So I let loose my crown and gazed once more at the view
And whispered the story of the place now nobody knows;
Here in the field where the sycamore grows.
YOU ARE READING
Imagination
Poetryim·ag·i·na·tion /iˌmajəˈnāSH(ə)n/ noun the faculty or action of forming new ideas, or images or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. Otherwise known as "Musings of the Balladeer." This is an anthology of poetry I've written...
