Having grown lost and confused,
My compass a hopeless compatriot,
I tire of traversal,
I cease for repose in a shrouded glade,
Flanked by vines and caressed by grass almost glowing,
But my rest is quickly cut short by weight of eyes,
A million foreboding fireflies,

Miniscule beings of glamour I notice,
Little simulacra of humans,
Hiding behind toadstools and tulip buds,
Scores upon scores,
I hear them flitter,
Giggling and chanting in shrill tongues,
Sounds from every direction,

Skeptical of their intentions,
Whether foul or fair,
I bade them come clean,
But instead they plied their folkloric magics,
Binding me in cruel ivy,
Laying claim to me as a plaything,
Still their hollering chorus cried on,

For decades I have remained here,
Still bound in enchanted green,
A literal piece of garden furniture,
Subject to jests and jabs of fancy,
Endless riddles and unfair games,
My torment at their hands may go on for eternity,
A nightmare wrought in trickery and thaumaturgy,

I implore you,
Beware the fae glades,
Beware the pixies.

Comments
  1. What an interesting word,
    ” thaumaturgy” new for me.
    Always a pleasure to read your work. 🌳😊

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