Orbs

Grandma ghosts sitting on the edge of the bed
echoing the enchantment assurances
inspiring the incense of nostalgia
feeling the caresses of phantom fairies and gnomes.

Swirling deep into the marrow vortex of belief
where they suck the mind into worlds
of pristine prevarication.

Veins bulge with anticipation
that perhaps utopia is not a mirage after all.

Inner eyes swell with solidity of fantasia's miasma
voice of the soul sings its possibilities
paradise is born with a face
giving light to one's heart.

Unable to breathe without seeing
a gossamer castle of deepest desires
erected on the horizon of the mind.

Reaching for it with such burning fingers
grasping it with all one's energy
until the day comes
when you stand where you dream.