The Scent of BlackberriesWater lapped at his feet in slow ebbs. He was still sucking on his thumb, long after the thorn had punctured the soft flesh. The scent of freshly picked blackberries betrayed his foul mood, and he stood abruptly to march away from his bucket down the shoreline, only to plop down on a moss infested rock. The lake was a perfect mirror of the brilliant blue sky that slowly darkened with the waning hours of the evening. Soon it would be painted with sweeping streaks of purple and gold, but he had to head back before then. It did not bode well with anyone to linger after night fell. Fred sat and watched the glassy face of the lake as faint ripples riddled its surface from fish seeking to feast on tiny bugs. After a time, he grudgingly retraced his steps back to his bucket of blackberries and hoisted it up from the rocky shore. He'd rather leave it behind, after all the trouble they had caused him.
The Lost BoysAll children grow up, except one.IWe are the lost boysWe are the lonely boysTied togetherYoung minds stumped for growth. Alas!Weaving storiesIn quiet woodsPlaying pretend withWords that fall falseOn our lipsIn NeverlandFood without substance, games without fun,Memories lost, stories without end;Those who have landedLeaving footsteps in the sand, only to fade awayRemember us-if at all-as proudInsolent youth, and onlyCharacters in a storyThe lost boys.IIEyes I try to meet in dreamsOn the burnt edges of a mapFail to open:There, the eyes arePeering through the windowThere, sitting by the fireAnd her voice isPainting a pictureA tale in crimsonEnding with "happily ever after".Let me be nearerPeering through the curtainsLet me don my sidesWith things of the pastVines of emerald, skeleton leavesBehaving as a shadowEver fleeting-Hiding in that placeThe second from the rightIIIThis is the hidden landThis is the lost landHere those adornedIn