I may seem like a manic/magic elven/pixie
dream girl. I may even
play one on Twitter.
but those portraits leave out the down side
of the swing. mania
has its price. those girls are
always so whimsical, happy, cute/kawaii,
they never cry
themselves to sleep,
they never set themselves on fire
for love, let alone for hate.
so I’m burning up in here
alone, ’cause I’m searching
for other mystical, half-mythical
creatures, heroic figures
riding up from the West
appearing suddenly in the forest
shrouded in fog and mystery; the Wild
Hunt – that sort of thing.
every night, I
visit with the Auld Ones
under the hills, drinking fairy wine
and dining in an empty hall
lined only with magnificent
echoes, clinking glasses with
the most gorgeous and
glamorous ghosts, listening
to their bittersweet eldritch music,
brushing silken dresses bustled and
rustling with dust; each year feels
like a minute and so
a hundred years slide by unheeded, but
I still haven’t forgotten
a single moment of the many
that haunt me
and
still I flee ever deeper
in my relentless search
for the deepest possible
truths of the heart. so if you
want to find me,
send a lantern down
and someone who’s not afraid
to brave the cairns. I’m not safe
or fit for the faint
of heart.
R. Brookes McKenzie 