I forgot how to write poems
Is that when you make your best attempt at translating the unexplainable into a distorted image someone can enjoy for a moment
Thinking they caught a glimpse of your humanity?
Or is it when you remember, for a moment, what life always was
Or when you let the writing remind you?
It doesn't happen often anymore
But when it does
Different seasons carry distinct smells, nightfalls, and atmospheric conditions for outer worlds to turn inward
By meeting me where I am and reaching me
Temporarily
Judgement falls away
Pretenses stop existing
And we're allowed to be with each other
The lights are on
The currents are running
And everything that is real comes into being
Yes, including the Fae
And the income taxes
And everything in between
Isn't this where we all came from?
Before confusing ourselves for
Pineal gland calcification
Synaptic pruning
And chemical imbalance?
Before confusing our world for chaos, sickness, and ruin?
We are emanations of Nature
We are waters flowing in their conscious, narrative, interactive forms
We are the Fae
And the Fae
Answer to no one
