Taps are being played
In the middle of me
To say good-bye
To that part that
No longer believes
In fairy-tales, or
Pumpkin pie wishes
Skipping rope, or
Skating past Billy Bob
With my tongue out so
Or that blood on T.V.
Is real, and the actors
Never get up again.
That no fairy godmother
Is going to do these
Dishes, or those clothes
In a sack, in one magical
Pass of her wand.
I want to believe in Santa
Claus, of a man who
Gifts me with treats and
Spill. I want to believe
In a world without war
Or one that children
Don’t die of hunger
While adults feed them
Selves nearby in a gift
Of North Korea.

Taps are being played
In a space deep inside.
Oh, how I don’t want
To return
To that place where
No lie hides.

Charlotte Ballard

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/taps-4/