Looking glass

The moon cremates darkness in a contrasting    
urgency below the looking glass, the sun rising    
sallow with sunken luminescence and a frenzied    
flickering gaze; flowers cower and bow their heads  
praying for the danger to dissipate.    
   
Rabbit hearts and the voices of lions meld together    
with the wind as it whistles through rustling trees.    
Mutterings deepen baritone then rise to a tenor as    
tides of conversation flood heavily over my spirit    
(I could stay here forever) and then roll out again.    
A lion dances; his rabbit heart fluttering unstable    
insisting that I accept his bottle of sobriety,    
forcing the green-glass neck into my hand.    
   
I do, and with a gulp I am dragged drunkenly    
into reality, the looking glass at my feet.    
This time, I'll let it collect dust.