A trickle of time passes by,

Almost as sweet as a lullaby,

On the freshest cloudy day,

When all of your fears pass away.

And you make something very small,

Barely noticeable at all.

Things of wonder, things of old,

All heard while huddled in the cold,

Waiting for the special thing,

Perhaps a diamond ring,

With a man kneeling down,

Or some bread, fresh and brown.

Everyone has one, and everyone will,

Just that tiny mill

Of thoughts, when you will say,

"I wish!"

_pure_imagination_