Pixie Dust Belief

The stars told me
to hold my breath
that pixie dust is little more than time
I could never have.
Too bad I stocked up on it
wished on it…
waiting for belief to
carry me away up to the heavens
now denying me entrance.

The rain told me
I was a thief
that I had stolen the essences of itself
and trapped it in the brown of my eye
taking its presence and mocking it.
It claimed cleansing
I turned it to rivers of disillusion.

I began to stumble on dreams
grasping empty air that acted solid -
falling was never about hitting the ground
but about the distance in between
standing and collapsing.

From my knees
I stood a white flag
dug deeply into blood-rich soil
calling attention to an organ
no longer beating.

Darkness lurked in the branches of the oak,
time restrained behind its leaves
where the closing of eyes
released me from moments
but then sleep demanded presence
haunting with all of its stories.

They call me lost, thief, wanderer,
conceived titles from idealistic thought.
Justice also took another name,
running from the bindings
that came with truth and neglect.

So who am I?
Who am I really,
when the rain has called me a thief,
and I have become a wanderer
in search of stars,
armed with only pixie dust?