talented skeptics waking from the magic that flows from the fingertips of gremlin werewitches wishing they were born into a tribe of spanish conquistadors stirring in the sea of shivering dreams when taking over another’s home was normal and needed to exchange the throne of kings who wanted to pollute their position of power for profit limply leaning on edges of mountain-top snow drifts blown to shape our emotional lifts lovers gifts delivered during days of lamppost parades with whistle blowing well wishers signaling a confrontation with the few of us who still believe

it’s not stirring spells that circumvent our need for control, it’s the collective soul reaching this goal