with the others, it's all play, like the mock violence in a matt dillon movie, as opposed to a documentary where real bodies are lying in the street...the difference being that one is real, and the other is not...so when it comes to real things, where real hearts are tested in the embrace of words, and flames that with the slightest breeze could burn homes to the ground, then indulging in the heat of flames is not play, and what could pass for the moment's fullness would turn to stark starvation, and nothing that is born in the tears of others could ever take flight and stay aloft; and further, though you may serve, it be by your leave, and not because you are born to it, my lady
ahh... but there is so much to be read into here...
still waiting, like all of us for something... like all of us lost, in the illusion, of time.
and easy love... to good to be true, or too good to last.
and the magic in the last lines
to the Lost Boys
I am no Wendy;
but my voice brings you back to me.
And you sit around my feet,
anxious for a story
or a kiss.
Listening to my words
spinning adventures,
like so much g.. more..