The girl with hair pink as candy
Plays the violin in
The school bathroom
With a rusty bow,
And just before dawn in her bed
To calm her tempers
And soothe her demons to sleep,

For I suppose she figures
Between her and them,
One deserves to slumber
Peacefully.

I want a
head-dress of feathers
like hers

Time passes in the river
I'm restless
I quiver
My fingers are long
and longer
touch the foreign soil
grow under

Maybe you forgot
but I never did

I wear a head-dress
of feathers
and battle the wind
with eye-lashes
I dance on smooth stones
I carry large weight

Something is burning
pounding
in the rhythm of the heart
this land is too wide
for just sitting still

I wear a headress of feathers
I walk in the dark
I go on one foot
I march like a crowd
I read from a map
I read from the stars
our footprints are crossing
a numerous times
I wear a head-dress
of feathers
just like she does

Maybe you forgot
but we never did
this land is too wide
for just sitting still

When I met you,
I never knew how hard it was to not laugh
The way we cracked up
The way your face wrinkled up when you laughed,
Like creasess on a paper
Frantically straightened
Only to find the light fold still there.

We laughed like old trees,
So close for so long
Roots like Memories
Leaves like words we knew we'd say
But you were hiding something,
Something worse than just
The insects under your bark.

Deeper than the sap in your limbs
Deeper than the growth-rings that measure character
You had The 94
Now, all but our worry remains
You see, it's not a blight,
This 94, not a disease,
It's the whispers in your roots,
The deathly cadence of the wind
The indescribable,
Overpowering,
Trickle of twisted sunsets
And deformed seasons,
Winter sprouting buds--
Boils upon your branches,
Sickening grey around your trunk

But not one visible sign
Only the molting of your smile,
So folded and creased,
Only the fade in your eyes
While Spring at its peak
An unseen sulk in your boughs
Brittling your laugh
To crackling sighs
All this, why 94?
Now the story ends where it began
So full a number 94, but only the
Measure of how overcome
A surplus of spite
A great harvest of sorrow,
Your greatest and happiest
But never, 94

While Spring states, "Alive!"
Only 6% so,
While Autumn brings cloaking frost,
94, brings the snow
Your Headress of Sorrow
Your blood-gleaming boil,
Your invisible meanace.

"The tree was never good enough,"
A passing being once said
'It's leaves don't fall right'
'Why was it planted here?'
'Why is there no fruit'
'Why'
'How'
'What'
And so, your 94:
Never Good Enough

But I ask: redemption?
Regrowth?
Another Harvest?
Another Season?
Another,
andanotherandanotherandanotherandanotherandanoth­er

Now we're back,
No leaves on your brow,
Roots not flowing for now,
But,
     barely awake for the sun.
Its smile is warm,
Rays of life.
Golden, gleaming--
Breathe!
You're still here
Breathe!
It's only you
Breathe!
But how-- Alive?
Breathe?
Where's 94?

Only husks remain
No more shadows
No oily Rain,
No more grey
Or bloodened boughs

Just you,
  and Me,
  and the sun.

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.