THE STORYTELLER
Oh, the wildness of the teller in her cave of bone!
She finds dragons in stumps, faces in every carpet—
how will she make it cohere?
Was it once upon a time, or ever after?
Snakes and bears are real enough,
and mirrors trying to reflect what’s fair.
She searches her fallible senses
entwined with shadowed remembrances
and pieces a pattern, a dream, a tale— something
that might be true, or that someone might believe.
The smell of whisky, the texture of satin,
a whisper behind a half-closed door—
GladErrand 
Pareidolia. I have a bad case of it – or a good case, depending on how you look at it.
Thank you for the great word! Maybe we should form a society.