The Storyteller

He sits and weaves a tale of despair that turned
A princess to stone. Flame that licked the dawn
To light from dragons swimming, twining together
On heaven’s horizon, violet eyes, and talking snails
Who give directions in labyrinths, warning of
Red monsters who dare love the darkness trailing sleep.
Stars fall to marry princes as he speaks. Pixies
Tease babies’ cheeks in cradles of wood, lilies cry
Diamonds, and castles hide gold, daring stumbling
Men to follow misty lights into gardens where
No mortal dare step. He breathes. My heart stops.
Lips move in wonder over sharp lines of
Fairytales once real in the minds of witch hunters.
He beckons my love to the invisible, touchless place
Where dead men drift between worlds wrapped in tattered sails,
Singing to me gently. Tales older than logic. Older than Man.
“Magic,” he calls it. He fills the blackness of my eyes with wonder.
“Beauty.” And leaves me to dream.