by Caroline Prank
I haven't made a single wish in my entire life.
Every star, and every candle, every eyelash, every rainbow, all the pennies drowned, and the petals pulled, and I haven't made a single wish.
With all the men turning gold, and the genies in lamps,
wishing is as common as the cold, and quite as dangerous. Yet, I find myself searching, for a need within me fruitlessly, because while there are plenty of things I want,
there is nothing I would wish for.
this, this is for all the wishes that don't know they exist.
all the people left feeling for something, just behind the hint of emotional mist. All the dreams that float confined to the lines of your bedroom's celling.
That soul that used to drill holes into your psyche,
so that the breeze could blow through and shake up a new muse. That energy that used to connect us all, and now lays stripped to its cords and cables.
Wires connecting a few fair folk,
that still have the minds to pull through it all. I applaud them, with the same heavy feeling in my chest that seems to find me after every sentence.
It seems I've grown a plant of envy, that chokes me till I am for evergreen.
So, now after the turn of time,
I'm shutting my eyes, in the eye of the storm, and I'm telling myself, "I wish for something to wish for".