Down the Rabbit Hole

I love a man who died eighty-nine years

Before my conception here on earth.

His words echo through time with happy tears

And smiles displaying a child’s mirth.

I clearly remember the jealously

Focused intently on Alice Liddell.

Reading his rhymes and poems zealously,

Why is a Raven? should have been my riddle

To solve while on a trip with this genius.

But I was born scores too late for this dream.

A wonderland so heterogeneous,

Left alone in the golden afternoon’s gleam,

“We’re all mad here”, the phrase is my anthem.

Quite insane to fancy such a phantom.