In the Basement A little boy Was in the basement Of a house so old and crumbly

The doors were rotted The windows cracked The floors creaked and groaned

And every night When the moon shone upon A scraggly tree out front

The winds would blow And wrack the house In ghastly shivers and chills

The little boy did not mind, though For unlike you might think, His basement was not moldy and gross

It did not brim with fungi Nor be as cold as ice Nor house the same dreariness as everywhere else

The basement was small With concrete walls And a flickering light overhead

But the boy had painted the walls Had painted the ceiling, the floor In a flowery garden

Meadows stretched As far as he could see And clouds dotted the sky

The boy’d rest Upon a drawn willow tree And slowly close his eyes

As he rested As he drifted into sleep Dreams would come

-But were they dreams? Or was he truly transported To the fields which made up his life?