Luck led me to his mother,
A goddess who
kept him in a Ziploc bag,
"He's the Special One" she sighed
And reached in to rub his star-spangled head.
Visits on Thursdays,
My boy prince,
My young king,
wintry-eyed with hair
caressing his neck like a black snake,
His mouth thinned
from hours of runic recitation,
his eyes weary with remembering
forbidden knowledge
of an older time.
With my muse
and an old bloodhound
We'll tour the world
in an authentic 60's Volkswagen minivan
we stole from a hippy's backyard.
When night falls
and the fireflies stab the dark with flashing points of light,
We'll conjure archways dripping with roses
Our lovemaking rapturous
on sleeping bags stashed in the back.
Honey mead will flow as we solve riddles
and listen to the sounds of ol' Terra
creaking on her eternal foundation...