Spirits

The gathering breeze hails forth a bright row of shiny penny’s falling from the ears of dolls.
Locks of strawberry blond curls blowing across eons of time spun wheat whose tiny dry leaves melt like soda flavored shoestrings into the walls of pure silk.
Stockings, a prize for those who remain vigilant and the others, the others that cannot drink from crystal chandeliers hung from strands of gossamer.
These are the dreams of soulful spirits that cannot make sense of right or wrong.
They wonder still.