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.
What an interesting word,
” thaumaturgy” new for me.
Always a pleasure to read your work. π³π
Haha! I love that word, it rolls off the tongue so well. π Thank you as always my friend!
The Oldschool Harlequin
My pleasureππ