The Soul of Scheherazade

When the night's air kisses with warm, dry lips
and the mind escape to oasis in a mystical desert,
nomadic spirit stirs the eve with restless expectations,
moving from the simple quiet of ordinariness' tents
to soar upon dove's flight by fancy's vivid wings.

Feeling inside the soul of Scheherazade
speak the tales riveting in magic, love and hope,
able to embrace with a tease of wonderment,
a chance to experience a vagabond's unexpected blessings
or the mercy of when a pauper is graced with prosperity.

Gazing outward at the darkness
where one's problems sleep
and savoring that taste of the impossible becoming truth,
which her stories shared with such entrancing imagination.

Surrendering wholly with the heart
unto the charms that her Arabian creations
wove in spellbound sagas,
giving my wounded life such lifting thoughts,
how perhaps there is a chance in my own wilderness
for a miracle to come in the arid blackness,
unable to stop recalling Aladdin's fate,
its enchantment spreading over my essence
as a carpet, soothing and serene,
inspiring me to always think
somewhere I too
can find my own lamp of dreams.