This is where I buried my heart,
no, I mean
this is where I planted my heart,
like a seed, like a treasure,
here in the middle of a dense dream forest,
wild and wanting and fierce,
dangerous and deadly.
There are many maps but
none of them are as true as
the one that has been written between
the lines of a crossroads contract,
although the bargain of souls always
has loose ends and loopholes
if one knows where to look,
which is not with the eyes but
with memories, regrets, and blind hope.
My armor is the earth, soaked with rain,
and other fallen things, there was
an angel once who crushed my heart
unknowingly beneath his feet as he
tried to balance himself unwinged,
cursing, plotting cold revenge.
I have made a marker of fairy rings,
so I would not forget where I was supposed to be,
and have found my sleep disturbed by
the lost and the curious, and by
beautiful dreaming kings
disappointed to find I was merely a dead end,
a false start, and that there was no queen
worth kissing to save at all.
Lately, there have been murmurings
among the trees, of borders breached,
of strange blooms arising from the depths
of earth and water, sand and rock,
of messengers with impossible forms.
The dream forest is hushed as it waits.
Something stirs.
Something wakes.
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