Walls of bush and ivy tower over me, trapping me within. I wander around and around, taking first one path, then another. Twisting, turning, weaving; dead end after dead end. Searching, expecting it to be just around the next corner. But it's always the wrong way.
I gaze up in the clouds and witness magic working, creating wonder for those who wish to truly see.
Laying on my stomach in front of the Victorian dollhouse, arranging furniture and whispering stories. The dolls move from room to room, oblivious of my choking fingers around their fragile frames.
Mother bakes, Father reads, the children play, baby sleeps. My narration is weaving, my mind creating; imagining. For this precious moment, I'm a little girl again.
Holding a glittering flame in your hand...
A dazzle in the night sky...
Painting glowing pictures against an inky canvas...
One's own Sparkle of Happiness. 
Gowns of lace and silk, flowers weaved into auburn locks. Fine china and ribbons; little ladies playing dress up. A little cream, two scoops of sugar. Warm porcelain between your fingers, steam tickling your nose as it twirls in the air with soft, bubbly laughter. Gooey biscuits and strawberry tarts staining white pressed gloves, sugar sprinkled on dimpled rosy cheeks. 
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined." 
The ship has been docked at harbor for far too long, anchored still. It gazes longingly into a cloud filled horizon and a foamy sea–– swabs of dandelion puffs; hues of ocean green and seaweed blue. It bobs in rhythm with the waves, patient for the wind to fill its sails once more. Lands are waiting to be discovered, journeys yearning to be taken.
There's a secret hiding somewhere, a buried whisper, that'll show me where the magic is.
"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
Faded looking glass, distorting the image staring back at me. Lies are all you whisper, reflecting nothing more than a stranger, hiding beauty from my seeking eyes.
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