The forest is ablaze,
With smoke signals saying,
The magic’s all dead now.
And with a gas can in hand,
We’re just shouting,
That it ain’t our fault that,
There’s no one left to blame.
But I alone
(No more),
Know more –
It was me and you that sparked first,
When we found the Fae,
Thought that it was ours to share,
Something we owned,
To fulfill that master/slave dialectic,
Which fueled our feet before we knew,
Where we were headed.
I remember the glint in your eye,
Just a reflection of my eagerness to
Finally fly free from the here,
The greatest fault of which was being familiar but
Who has time for reflection,
When you’ve found the stuff of miracles
A mere arms-length away?
The last time I left,
I left you there,
Stuck in the clearing,
Staring at pure bliss,
Spritely dancing in the daylight and moonlight,
Intertwined in a state that couldn’t be –
Shouldn’t be.
Shan’t be.
Just like the other children,
With varying levels of wrinkles,
Who couldn’t break back away,
To return to the place they,
Rightfully,
Called home.
It’s with awful shame,
So consumptive that it eats up everything else,
That I stared through the slats of my –
But used to be our –
Tree-house as the town sprouted brawny legs and arms
Strong enough to jump, bend and rip down
The timber they had called neighbor,
To fashion a torch free from tinderness,
That erupted at the touch.
I watched them,
Through misty eyes,
Burn what they loved to the ground,
In order to keep it,
Safe and near and dear.
It’s not all my fault,
But it is all our faults,
And the damn fools,
Don’t even know,
What they did.
They’re just dancing now,
In the desert of their own wake,
That they weren’t even invited to.
Post-Neology 