HOME | DD

Description
Two tracks lead off through dark Crayola green.
One is your ‘road less travelled’, a mud less mushed.
I go for the colder, the sloppier one,
And soak my jeans in chocolate fudge dirt,
Throwing splats into the silence to spite you.

I am not afraid of the well-worn way,
Knowing that nothing on it will be seen again,
These blurs in muggy haze unrepeated,
Except, at the risk of sounding naive,
By one who sees like me,
Like you.

I found a circle of trees where nothing grew,
An inhuman ballroom,
Eerily left like an abandoned house.
If there was a house to hand
I would put chicken feet on it,
And fill it with potions for you,
For what we used to believe in, as kids,
And for what I still think and see.
My walks here are full of pale masquerades
And blood-capped long-fingered hunchbacks,
But these things will not translate.

I only ask that you stand taller,
Listening with me once in this place,
For the chance of the fairytale ending:
You hearing thoughts of mine,
Thoughts of many,
Which have been charmed from leather-bound wisps of woods like these,
From trunks black with rain, axed into beige slices,
And read by red eyes.

I sit in neon moss with a soil taste and river sounds,
Watching water move like the mercury of glass.
These ferny fumblings make me still,
Offering dock leaves to nettle stings,
And as such, swords to monsters.

This time, though, I shiver.
It is always twilight here,
A purple mist hanging over these white flowers.
There seems no world outside this dome of forest,
Yet it always feels dusky, and somehow setting.

My scarlet hood is striped by pine trunk shadows
But I fear that these bands will broaden into dark.

I doubt you realise
That children are no less scared of night for having guardians like you.
The fears that they grow into are worse.
Even with all that I know of stories, our ending baffles me,
And my own, even more so.

That is why I drift so much into fantasy,
Marching back to the outskirts,
To text bleeps, order forms, and men who might rape,
And wishing the whooshing wind and the wily wood
Had swallowed me whole in their gaping wolf jaws.

Description
Two tracks lead off through dark Crayola green.
One is your ‘road less travelled’, a mud less mushed.
I go for the colder, the sloppier one,
And soak my jeans in chocolate fudge dirt,
Throwing splats into the silence to spite you.

I am not afraid of the well-worn way,
Knowing that nothing on it will be seen again,
These blurs in muggy haze unrepeated,
Except, at the risk of sounding naive,
By one who sees like me,
Like you.

I found a circle of trees where nothing grew,
An inhuman ballroom,
Eerily left like an abandoned house.
If there was a house to hand
I would put chicken feet on it,
And fill it with potions for you,
For what we used to believe in, as kids,
And for what I still think and see.
My walks here are full of pale masquerades
And blood-capped long-fingered hunchbacks,
But these things will not translate.

I only ask that you stand taller,
Listening with me once in this place,
For the chance of the fairytale ending:
You hearing thoughts of mine,
Thoughts of many,
Which have been charmed from leather-bound wisps of woods like these,
From trunks black with rain, axed into beige slices,
And read by red eyes.

I sit in neon moss with a soil taste and river sounds,
Watching water move like the mercury of glass.
These ferny fumblings make me still,
Offering dock leaves to nettle stings,
And as such, swords to monsters.

This time, though, I shiver.
It is always twilight here,
A purple mist hanging over these white flowers.
There seems no world outside this dome of forest,
Yet it always feels dusky, and somehow setting.

My scarlet hood is striped by pine trunk shadows
But I fear that these bands will broaden into dark.

I doubt you realise
That children are no less scared of night for having guardians like you.
The fears that they grow into are worse.
Even with all that I know of stories, our ending baffles me,
And my own, even more so.

That is why I drift so much into fantasy,
Marching back to the outskirts,
To text bleeps, order forms, and men who might rape,
And wishing the whooshing wind and the wily wood
Had swallowed me whole in their gaping wolf jaws.