Widderside

by Oliver Smith

Illustrated by Joel Basilion

The airy spirits soared on rainbow wings

and sang fair songs. They whispered you among

bright, enchanted flowers and guided you

through the cruel, dark leagues of your journey

through chasm, cave, mountain pass, and towered city.

Now you have crossed again that mossy bridge

that spans the realms of gods and men, and you

find those faeries are there still, yet they swarm

and buzz on day-old horse dung somehow shrunk,

and their voices’ sweet music strangely gone.

You walked endlessly interwoven paths

that meandered through madcap adventures,

from woods of golden-leaved trees to forests

deeper than the sea, where beneath the boughs

the yellow light of sun had never shone.

Those myriad roads conspired in your return

to the rubble and weeds of this derelict ground

behind the five and dime, where cloud-piercing

turrets are crumpled pictures in the dust,

and the carcasses of dreams all turn to rot.

The dragons, the witches, the minotaurs

you fought and slew are somehow amorphous

and have seeped into every word and thought

of those you loved. And this gift you bring

which glowed like a star, like a burning heart,

like a revelation, that you present before

gathered crowds, has become a clouded glass,

showing only their own dull selves shuffling

in the mall. So, turning your back, you leave

your world to tread the fairy path once more.

You throw wide the door, and storm the gulf

to quest for greater prizes than before. 

Blood and bitter trials lie ahead this time,

though you weep a flood, though you may burn

upon that road, there will be no return.