when your child is terminally ill, a magic place sounds like a miracle
The Lost Boys and Miracles
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 beg, "Grant me sight".
The bird has told me of the fair one,
with wisdom and heart of compassion.
She has secrets to whisper to my sweet son.
Her beauty and strength derive from the Great One.
Legend is her ability to imagine; evolve worlds.
Magical places where miracles are spun,
castles on clouds, lions and kittens play for fun.
Angels dwell, fire and ice mix for fairy tales.
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
Edited July 2021