A Poem

I have been feeling rather negative lately, so I took some initiative and tried to capture my power as a creator.  Here is what I came up with.

I can choose to dance
on the silver wings of the cold moon, each step
a new star in the night's velvet blackness.
I can choose to wander
lush and misty forests, replace
the gnarled undergrowth with springy
moss, while the sun winks down at me
through the dense emerald canopy.
I can choose to fall in love
with a dashing young gentleman, despite
his too-pointy nose and strict sense of honor;
I can mourn his untimely death, even though
it be by my own hand.
I can choose to lay on the scalding sands
of the beach, under the sun's jagged hot edges
while my skin crisps into bacon
even though I sit in my bedroom, merely
a seashell rolling with the ocean's waves
held to my ear.

All this and more I weave
tangible sigils through emotional magic
swirling dust vortices that cloak
mystic fire.

I am a writer.  Though my outside world
is a small part-time job,
piles of procrastination,
towers of mispronounced words,
my inner world runs deep
neurons alight like crystalline stars
in the blackest coat of night.