Long ago
a little girl,
with crayons bright,
she made a world on sheet of paper,
stark and white,
stick of princess and her knight.
His horse was pink,
her dress, blood red,
he with dark hair
on his head
and in the corner she wrote
`LOVE'
then scribbled stars and moon
above.
Decades come, decades pass.
The little girl? A comely lass.
She finds her picture,
torn and tattered,
long after knights have ceased to matter.
Silently, with fingertip,
she traces
`LOVE'
then touches lips,
for she, this damsel in distress,
could still use the rescue.
[she has the dress]
~j~
