Open a calendar
Fantasy paintings
And I am no longer
Here
But
There.
The wizard dies
And a ball
Of light flies
Out a window
And over
An unfamiliar
Countryside
Free from
Electric lights,
Cities and roads.
Into windows
Of simple
Farm thatched
Homes
The blue white
Ball hovers
Like the
Will-O-wisp,
Intelligent,
Seeking
For something
I know
Not,
But follow
Like an
Invisible child
Tethered,
To a story
Only I
Can see.
Yet I will be
Credited with
Its creation
Like this
Poem.
I didn't
Fashion the
Images,
Nor created
The painting
Of the old man,
Neither did
I choose
The story
As my spirit
Was whisked
Away to
Someplace else.
It wasn't the first time.
It won't be the last.
I'm never just here,
I'm always
Also
Someplace else.
The only difference
Is where
I am
Paying attention.
