Beetle - 8/17/08
I have, as always, an overactive imagination
There is little that can enter my mind without
Being taken apart, hollowed out, filled with sugary make-believe
And put back together.

When I met you, my workshop was out of work
But not nearly out of order, you see --
I've been more frustrated lately. I have
Far less patience for your kind.

I'd been making mountains into molehills for years,
Sweeping every exciting moment out of the way
None of it mattered, none of it counted. None real.
And I was prepared to keep it up, honestly.

Of course there were smaller things that happened here and there
Where someone would catch my eye and
The elves would go back to work slowly, begrudgingly
Then throw their tools in the shed. Nothing.

But...then. Don't ask me why. The light went on.
I think my surprise lent to my curiosity.
And it was red. And the workshop clocks ticked
The hum and machinery rocked into full tilt.

So here I am, perfectly still but with this
Dream Factory crunching in my head, thinking -
What if your mind looks like mine? The shreds
Of paper, I'm sure, can wait until later.