I find myself in quiet corners
capturing wayward lines on discarded napkins
or random library slips, realizing
there is magic to corral and wrestle upon the blank space –
the image of a modern day Pan
playing his flute upon the damp sand
of a log strewn beach,
gently swaying and twirling underneath the morning sun,
the silver of his otherworldly instrument
flashing upon every turn, hypnotizing the unaware.
There is enchantment sowing its undulating spells
across the land in seven directions,
enveloping those who take the time to really see,
who can seek a truth and watch the lies that some men tell
with their black hearts still beating,
burn to ash and fall away.