How Fairytales Die

14 Mar

Fairytales,

like the little ducklings of resurrection morn,

are soft boned and quick breathing,

precious passing promises

in an ecstasy of pin feather and fluff.

Archetypes of the tender hearted,

yearning fingers close

around their bright quickening

to cage heaven,

only to rebirth in raven shadow

a whispered craving.

Close and closer is its keeping,

till memory and time

is all one holds onto,

like rising mist from

the green glass of a morning pond

in April Sunday sunshine.

What a pressing poisonous

surprise to open

captor hands

to find

oneself

so soft,

so silent,

so innocently

still.

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