I barely remember how the hues of December
cast sepia waves through her hair. Those words
she first uttered: out here there be monsters,
seemed a plea, not a thing to beware.
A quick realisation: she sailed a maelstrom
mainlining a vein named despair. Lost
within dreams of heroine queens,
I drew heart-shaped clouds in thin air.
It felt like I’d woken when she said yes, you’re broken
but I’ll show you real broke, if you dare. As our ship
ran aground, frayed dreams dragged us down;
to the depths of her fell monster’s lair.
‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ – Oscar Wilde
From lofty heights descended,
an angel, fallen low.
Crystal dreams, dark testament,
a black eagle in white snow.
Once she raced before the wind,
but grew her wings too soon.
The dragon she chased, has turned to hunt
beneath a harvest moon.
The Beast stole joy and crawled away
over cracked and bleeding plains.
A white horse from stables bolted;
left dried up, broken veins.
Her palace of air the white boy stole –
to all four corners blown.
In a back alley gutter, she stares at the stars,
whispers there’s no place like home.