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Tuesday, May 7, 2013



The housings of my horse
Are embroidered with gold.
My skin is pure blue.
I walk through all forests,
Copper and silver and gold
And i am a story that cannot grow old.

My story is filled with all
Of the royals, prince and princesses,
Kings and queens;
Trolls and the fairies, enchanted
Castles of crystal and dream
And none of these creations will
Be what they seem.

My tasks they are endless.  They
Happen in threes, each one more
Complex, but accomplished with ease,
By magic and cunning, with fish,
Birds and beasts and magical fruits
And sweet candies and treats.

Stones more precious than
Jasper or Onyx.  Diamonds and
Opals and gems of great worth,
Seen always in dreaming then
Clouded by thunder.

The finest of cloth, silks brighter
Than sun and beautiful slippers
That fit only one and that one
Much more lovely than lovely could be
With witches and wizards turned into trees.

Such not are my stories when you
Have passed by.  They live in your
Childhood and are destined to die
Or hide from your grown self
Unless you can be, tempted by
Such things that might move
In your sleep and carry the
Fancies to caves where
They’re reaped by poets and traders
In rhyme and in magic who
Know what steals time.  It is
Through these stories joy
You will find.

Oh love them most well
Or the lights will wink out and you’ll 
Leave them behind
With much of the joy
Such great things can unwind.

There are tales to tell.
There are tales to tell.
Take all of their gifts
For they well keep you well.
Do not leave them behind.

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