We need to create stories,
to make meaning of our realities.
That’s what separates sapien
from beast.
Speak to gatherings for feast
or famine.
Sage, carnie, beggar
Come join in 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 hostility,
when scathing nerves
catch up with senses.
Soothed with martial melodies,
gratefully they rise to 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 smile when you’re
alone, explain
your terror.  You determine
to do better.  You soothe yourself with stories.
You spin a tale of love within a magic castle.
You spin yourself the center of romance,
a home, a fortress, an emptiness in trance.
Like a child counting fireflies,
alive in the darkened air,
dare to immerse with sparkling wonder,
to share
more magnificent stories.

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