It isn’t a magical carpet ride
upon which I gently glide…
it’s my stained and squashy old pillow.
I sleep, and my floating dreams billow.
In childhood years now left behind,
my memories are so entwined
with security and comfort as well…
the magic of that old lavender smell.
An everyday object, and night-time too;
it has seen me happy, and sometimes blue.
My pillow is warm; my pillow is cool;
it mops up all my slobbery drool.
Not too high, and not too flat…
a headrest for me and my pussycat.
I lie on my back, and sometimes my face.
I love my pillow; how could I replace?
In tears and fears, then sleepy yawns,
my pillow and I have weathered some storms.
If it could talk, it would probably say:
“The magic’s frayed. I’ve had my day.”
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