Enchanted

Fairies buzz around your head,

lifting locks of silver and threading them to gold.

Fairies dance about your crown,

admiring themselves in your pair of cobalts.

The nymphs are singing

from under the floor;

a song of restless seduction.

The water is steep and you

have many miles to go,

before you sleep;

before you sleep.

 

You’ve walked in the woods

during a snowy evening.

Lights pass through trees;

a makeshift kaleidoscope of perspective.

There are those who have never seen light

but we don’t talk about them anymore

they live under floorboards and cellar doors

just the sight of those

yellow eyes gleaming in the absence of light

can send shivers down your spine.

 

There is no your kind,

or his kind

or Her Kind.

 

“Illegals” is not a noun.

 

There is our kind

and we have always been

right

here.

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