She crouches down in the church doorway so her lacy obnoxious red headress barely fits through the doorway of the church.
Its filled with mormons as they marry a young girl in white lace cursed with sorrow and confusion.
A room full of strangers. They turn to look at her. A room full of emptiness and desperation.
Of course her big red veil made her late. She looks around as she adjusts it....
She thought her entrance would make it worth it not worried it will be impractical. Its enormous but she loves it.
She’s in the wrong place. She scans to see a room of strangers.
They stare. She's late and she's at the wrong church.
As she awkwardly turns around and bends back through the church doorway, squishing her big red useless headdress through the door...as discreetly as possible says.. I’m sorry.
She's gone and but leaves a permanent ripple on anyone who looked at her.
No one could look away or ever forget what they saw.
This long legged colorful Queen.
When I met her she had stuffed a wooden mannequin hand up her sleeve, she made me shake it and as I looked at it and tried to calculate what was happening as she danced and slide away and disappeared into the night, with it, for it, made it her own.
But I was compelled. I wanted to run after her. Bow to her.
Her and her wooden hand.
This Queen of the night.
I knew everything should bow to her.
This Queen from another world.
Living in the wrong kingdom with strings of light that follow behind her.
This creature that cups her world in her hands,
There she rests,
Where it all makes sense.
Meanwhile she tries to play normal,
In our world of puppets and mimes.
Her wind that makes her soar is coloured in shades we cannot see,
but when we are near her we want to glide with her.
Fly with her forever.
We want to see her colors.
But she likes to crash.
She spreads her broken wings across the grass again and again and as she closes her eyes this unpredictable wind makes her go.
Again.
She sails.
She soars.
She crashes again.
She starts over.
Spreading her wide broken wings across the grass.
And as we loyally try to catch as she falls into space,
something else catches her and makes her soar yet again.
Not us.
Only she knows how to soar.
She holds the key.
And as she soars and we watch in awe,
As she glides again.
And grows like long grass
So there you go, she's the plot twist that throws us all off.
An anomaly, A strange constellation.
An island on a map you can’t see that only few have been to.
Invitation only.
Don't try to make sense of it,
Even though it feels familiar.
Maybe one day you will ride in her windy sky.
It’s filled with promise that life is so much more.
Endlessly calling your name,
Embracing you with scents and sounds you never knew before.
Only reserved for truly open minded.
Hopelessly inspiring hope.
Leaving a lasting impression that some humans,
very few,
Can never cease to amaze you.
Morgana, forever.
had been taken in by a mirage known as a Fata Morgana, in which atmospheric conditions stretch, invert, and otherwise distort distant objects, making them appear taller.