I am past the unbridled nature of humankind,

That which rises from the soft ground below me,

Men drawing straws from the thicket like pencils,

In hopes of writing the next chapter in my story.

A slight opalescence stirring in the air,

Like a hyphen between worlds,

I become the story to enrapture children at their bedtime,

Small and bright and forever in their dreams.

And I am written between the realms of which he arrives,

Perhaps a young prince in disguise,

Enthralled in my impression as if I am the one he seeks,

And henceforth, I let down my hair.







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