Shielded by the dead of night
A homestead is alight
With neon-colored potions and plans
A lone and crooked frame
Weaves back and forth
Through the nurturing silence
Where his madness may grow
Into an outburst of genius
Where his cauldrons ignite
And froth with his loathsome schemes
Until, “the night has come”
Crawls out of his throat
And a dream, becomes a world set ablaze
A triumph, left smoldering in his past
© William Wright, Jr.
Excerpt from the book Poetic Shadows
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Anthology: Poetic Shadows
Try to imagine a world without fairy tales, imagine a world bereft of magic. What would become of a tender-hearted child's bedtime story? What would happen to the Peter Pan in all of us? Where would the dreamers, the star-child, breathe?
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