| photo/willow/magpie tales|
There is a core inside the lamp
that spins when the spirit dances.
He has the face
of the man in the moon,
hides in a recess looking out,
stares at me as I press closer,
my hands in prayer,
my mind craving entry,
wishing to be able to take a whirl
within a fabled orb,
to dance with my dream lover.
I'm ready to shed reality
for a glow of the light within.
What if instead
the magic tipped over
the oil bubbled,
and spread a flame
to burn all reveries?
What if possibility died in the fire,
and only a charred confession remained?
What if I'm the only one left
and then I find
the man in the moon?
Please check out all the terrific entries to Willow's prompts.
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