I Desire a Campfire

In 30 years, I'll be something great, the

president of a corporation, that sells special shoes

for running through the sand, or little trinkets that

people pay money for, and then throw away. Or maybe

I'll be a freelance writer, holding words close to me like

blankets, so that I can feel their warmth when every fiber in my

body is racked with cold. But in 30 years, you'll be someone else's

puppet, with a shadow of hope behind you, pulling all the strings. And you'll

never know true love or what it is to earn your keep, and when I'm

celebrating the fruits of my labor, you'll be building a tower of lego blocks

that will surely be knocked down.  I'll build a campfire to warm my feet, and you'll 

beg for a heater, or a quilt, and you'll get one; a quilt sewn from every piece of me you've

ever torn away.

The End

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