To The Moon

A little girl sits on a stool
her head deep in a corner
thinking of memories past,
crying.

Along comes a man of wishes
a suit of silver, a heart of gold,
his every whim a reality,
spying.

He says to her,
I'll hold your hand miss.
Why don't you join me?
flying.

Her head tilts back
to an endless night sky.
Her eyes, like the sparkles above,
shining.

And doesn't notice
the slip of her lips,
What if? She's almost
believing.

I'll hold your hand miss,
he repeats once more.
She feels so special already,
dearing.

Where are we going?
she inquires, still hesitant,
but powerless to turn away,
wondering.

We're going to the moon,
he assures, and reassures,
caressing her hand in his,
smiling.