Wednesday, October 13, 2010


We need to make up stories
to be able to create realities.
That's what separates sapien
from beast.
Speak to the feast
or famine.
Sage, carnie, beggar
Come to the play!
There was a Roman soldier bored with war,
with whores, with bloody babies.
Hoping to escape, he wrote a history,
moved into
his Holy fantasy.
It's but a Shangri-La, a piper's dream.
Metal men, formed from clay,
scream upon fields of battle,
when nerves
catch up with senses.
Soothed with martial melodies,
gratefully serve.

Listen, oh little one.
The wind will catch you up as you sleep.
You won't remember when you wake, weeping,
how small, insignificant you are.  Mommy assures,
you're her own little star.  Demons alone explain
your terror.  You determine
to do better.  You soothe yourself with stories.
You spin a tale of love within a dance.
You spin yourself the center of romance,
a home, a fortress, an emptiness fulfilled.
Like a child counting fireflies,
alive in the darkened air,
dare to immerse with sparkling wonder,
to share
more beautiful stories.
June 29, 2010

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