By Keith Bartram
Creators of forgotten realms,
pixies dancing on slain dragons,
broken swords of past confrontations,
magical dust that we breathe
into our lungs,
Changing our thoughts from pure
to insecure and cynical
Only to increase our senses
to a deafening hum,
Thinking of malignant plans,
only to fall through the pine,
onto the cold dirt below the boards
Coveted inside a velvet interior,
all darkness and not a sound,
but plenty air to breathe…
I think.