when your child is terminally ill, a magic place sounds like a miracle
I sit helpless near my little one to pray.
His precious body fades away.
A monster devours sweet flesh.
I drift. A lovely multicolored bird appears.
"Pick up your son, trust." I hear.
On downy wings, we fly into a starry night.
At a golden gate, I ask, "Keeper, grant me entrance".
The bird has told me of the fair one,
her wisdom and heart of compassion,
she has secrets to whisper to me.
Her beauty and strength are rare,
legend tell of her ability to spin, evolve worlds.
Magical places where miracles happen,
castles on clouds, lions and kittens play together.
Angels dwell, fire and ice mix for lovely scenes.
In her palaces, human frailties no longer exist,
children run and play in storybook dreams.
This is the land where wishes are granted.
Men, women, and children are blessed.
No illness or wars, peace reigns supreme.
My son and I long for this magical place,
for we have traveled far and are bone tired.
We want to trade our worn shoes for wings,
flying to the pleasure dome of the fair one,
where a boy can find joy, longevity and no pain.
By Kathie Stehr