he sat in his room
by orange candle-light.
he sat on a throw-rug
and with his mind,
seized the edges
and flew, a Prince
over endless sand dunes
and past the domes of strange cities.
he wore colorful clothing
with a life all his own,
and a turban, and a scimitar;
people dreamed when he waved.
he was a Hero;
he’d done something courageous,
wild, daring and dangerous,
and was appreciated
with gifts and in people’s eyes.
but he really never left his room.
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