from time to time
a little man comes
dressed all in black
with one blue sock
he greets you with a grin
as toothless as a babe
his purpose is wrapped
in secrecy and obligatory
his goal is obtuse
with a wave of his
tiny 4 fingered hand
he announces his arrival
for now is the time

little is relative
in a land of giants
ten feet tall
if ever a day
he begins to speak
in a hushed down voice
of things he has seen
since his last visit here

birds made of gold
with jade wings and
one ruby eye
lions of balsa
hunting lambs of iron
five winged donkeys
flutter and sing
while two legged fiends
try to interrupt the scene
forty fingered frogs
and alliterative ants
fantastic voyages
little remorse

he sits and he spins
his tales long and tall
we know he is lying
his tales too hollow
we weary of the dreams
he so casually spills

and then it comes
the truth of the matter
he lets it slip in
unnoticed by most
we are the tale
he is telling today
we are the hollow
phantasms he spins
we have so busy been
fluttering and singing
we've missed the point
we are the vapor
of his wild imagine
we are the creatures
of some other's tale