Dust And Dreams.

A dusty old box, stuck on a shelf,
May just be the key to your dreams.
In it, is magic, the sole of yourself,
You, dear, are not what you seem.

Blow off the dust, and open the hatch,
Resistant, but willingly so.
For a photo, a bottle, a couple a match,
May seem like junk, long ago.

The matches, though used, mean quite alot.
For they lit the way to the land.
The one in the Photo, were Unicorns trot,
And fairies fly free, hand in hand.

The bottle is full of a rainbow liqour.
Open it, feel the silk sky.
It floats in the air, breath couldn't be quicker.
Together, it and your heart fly.

A glance at the photo stops your breath short,
The rainbow, hovering above.
In it, a faraway paradise, of sorts,
With magic, and music, and love.

Your eyes wide as saucers, heart beating quick,
A soft smile plays on quaint lips.
Your attic is lit by a dim candle stick,
And your fingers, the photo, it nips.

You see a fountain, spewing the color,
The liquid made of pure light.
The sky is pure blue, no one pinching a dollar,
And the sand, why the sand is pure white.

You look around once, hope no one has seen,
This eyefull of magic to come.
For to share this dim beauty, you are not so keen,
To give it to drunks with thier rum.

And drinkers of brandy, smokers who cough,
Killers who murder and people don't think.
Of magic and dreams, people will scoff.
Our ignorance is on the brink.

Now, close the box, shut it real tight.
For no one but you must know.
Of the world that seems to be doing it right,
For our world is not ready to say "no".