The morning is hard. Possibility sparkles
in thin blades that lance dreams with medical
precision. It is time to grasp the tools of your trade
and set the world on fire. Gently, so as not
to wake those giants above you who hold your keys
as a mother dangles toys just out of reach for her
child to encourage grasping. You do not want that, not
today.
Today you want to quietly explore, ramble the curves
and caves long abandoned by dragons and trolls.
They cannot return, but their pungent stink lingers,
an invitation to danger; toothless, allurring. It would
be enough, to visit and revisit, to discover these broken
baubles made of dreams. You could cradle them, inhale,
and fly.
Daughter of Discord 