Missing Lock

I had this key,
slightly rusty and about the size of my palm.

I never found out where it led to.

I like to think it was the key to Wonderland,
or to the Wardrobe that in turn
leads to Narnia.

Being almost eighteen,
I know this to be false.

I want to recapture my childhood
without sounding angsty,
without writing faux-philosopical
poems (which I am doing).

I want, want, want.
To be, be, be.
Just Emily.

Age 8, maybe younger.
Before the computer, before the pains
of young adulthood.

I wish to be Alice, in my own
Wonderland. Without a care,
until I choose to blow the cards

away.

(c) November 2011