Tomorrow

Tomorrow is a Toyland

By the whisper of clocks and the laughter of hands,

We enter the world where the not-quite-true stands.

In the attic of stars where the dreamers once lay,

A carousel spun out the threads of the day.

Each spoke was a story, each horse was a word,

That galloped through minds not yet aged or unheard.

Tommy, the boy with the sleep in his eye,

Whispered to moons as they slid through the sky.

“Will you take me,” he asked, “to the place they forgot?

Where toy chests still open and battles are fought?”

The moon, being kind and unusually near,

Nodded once softly and tugged on his ear.

“Climb through the tick of the clock on the wall—

When midnight strikes twelve, you’ll be small, brave, and tall.”

So the second hand paused as the moment grew wide,

And Tommy, now dreaming, slipped right inside.

He fell through the chimes and the bells of the night,

Till he landed on grass stitched from leftover light.

He stood in the Toyland where old dreams go rest,

Where the kings wear tin crowns and the queens wear vests.

Where jacks from the boxes form armies in rows,

And marbles roll hills like forgotten snows.

The air smelled of cinnamon, wood glue, and stars,

Of childhoods that lived in glass pickle jars.

He met a lost yo-yo that danced with regret,

And a train with no tracks that remembered Tibet.

A kite swooped down low, wings tattered and frayed,

“I was flown by a girl who never once stayed.

But up here in Toyland, no string can confine—

We’re the ones who remember, we’re the ones out of time.”

Tommy walked forward through paint-flecked terrain,

Past castles of Legos, past dolls drawn with pain.

One ballerina spun endlessly there,

Her porcelain cracked but she danced through the air.

“Why do you twirl?” asked Tommy, in awe.

“To forget,” said the doll, “what the children once saw.

They left me mid-music, they went to grow old,

And I spun just to keep from becoming too cold.”

The boy reached the heart of the Toyland so deep,

Where memories hid and the soldiers don’t sleep.

A bear made of buttons and velvet once blue,

Sat guarding a throne of the toys that once knew.

“Who are you, sir bear?” said Tommy with grace.

“I’m the Keeper of Tomorrows that Time can’t erase.

Each toy here remembers the hands they once knew,

But they’re stitched to the silence and bound to the glue.”

Suddenly thunder—a storm made of clocks—

Rolled in from the edge of the crayon-box rocks.

A menace of minutes, a hurricane hand,

That turns all of Toyland to dust-colored sand.

“Time!” shouted Bear, “is reclaiming the play!

Unless someone dreams it, we’re fading away!”

Tommy stood firm with his heart beating wild,

He thought of his room, of his life, of the child

Who once sang to crayons, who danced with balloons,

Who built rocket ships with spoons and cartoons.

“I remember!” he shouted, “I dream with my soul!

I name every soldier! I refill each bowl!

No ticking can take what I carry inside—

The part of me small is the part that won’t hide.”

And with that, a golden gear rose from the dirt,

Cogs spinning backwards, undoing the hurt.

The toys grew brighter, more solid, more real—

Each hug from the past was a moment to heal.

In a final grand bow, the Toyland awoke,

Even the rocking horse whispered and spoke.

“We’re yours to remember, not yours to outgrow—

The heart makes a map where the body won’t go.”

Tommy turned slowly, his task now complete,

As the moon took his hand and pulled back the sheet.

He rose through the attic, through chimney and beam,

Back to the bed that had started the dream.

Now each night at twelve, with the hush of the breeze,

A toy soldier winks from the shadowy trees.

And somewhere in Toyland, the clocks pause in grace,

For the boy who remembered that time has a face.

Closing Lines:

So whisper, dear dreamer, to stars if you must—

For the toys are still listening, still brushing off dust.

Tomorrow is Toyland, and it waits for your song—

Where the lost are all loved, and the small are still strong.