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