The Verdigris Glade

[anirbas]

Somewhere along the beaten path,
but, far, far and away from it...
An old gypsy, dropped her pack,
with all her worldly treasures,
what precious few of them, there were;
in the middle of a vertigris glade.

Alone, she fumbled about,
as dusk drew nearer,
to becoming eventide;
foraging the periphery
of the green gladed glen
for provender and dried sticks,
with which to start a fire.

Returning to her pack,
slightly hobbling,
appearing to list
to both left then right,
at times, she dropped
her first starter tender
in one pile, her stash
of gathered nuts and berries,
in another, where she stored them
in the capacious pockets of her rough linen shift.

Scurrying faster, inspite of her apparent leg
injury, she passed the boundary from grassed meadow,
to the thickets and leaf dappled darkness,
in the shadows thrown by the crowns,
of the thickly grown ring of trees,
that surrounded the vertigris glade.

As she scampered here and there,
she quickly gathered larger branches,
that when she had a sizable pile,
she roped together...Just barely
managing to heft the woody mass,
over her stooped shoulers,
and onto her back.

Well worth her effort,
as she now had enough,
to keep the fire
she was about
to build,
burning
all
night,
if need be,
to stave back,
the wildness that
might lurk in the forest,
ringing the vertigreen glen.

She'd heard the whispered movements,
of the dark elves, not yet able,
to step from their darker clefts of shade,
amongst the shadows...Not and never,
until the last whisper of sunlight,
slid below the far western horizon,
could the children of Yer
or was it Yen?
Sometimes,
her ancient memory,
failed her...
Could the industrious,
dark elves, step from the shadows...
For as all know...The children of Yer,
may not and never be kissed by the sun...
For such would and does surely, them, turn to stone.

Reaching her pack,
the tired old gypsy,
just let go the rope,
and the bundle of larger
sticks and small logs,
fell with a rattled
clatter to the ground,
behind her stooped back.

She rubbed ruefully
at the small of her back,
for but a moment, and then no more.
Then set about her evening tasks.

She freed the rope from it's job,
of holding her treasured, darkness chasing
fire feeders and fodder...Left the pile where it was,
gathered her fire starter material, pushed the dried
twigs and grasses into the spaces between the larger
branches and logs already loosely piled...

Returned to her pack, rummaging through it,
and muttering to herself, about needing
to learn to organize her stuff better,
she found that for which she rooted...
Her precious and hard won,
in a game of gypsy cards,
tinderbox...

With which she lit
the stuffed dried grasses
and twigs...Crossed her fingers,
stepped back, and prayed the larger
stuff, caught fire...Otherwise,
it was going to be a long,
dark night...
And a chilled
one at that...

For the fire,
would serve a duel
purpose...To stave off the darkness,
and it's inherent eventide chill,
when the mist began to vesture,
the crown of the ring of trees,
surrounding the vertigris glade...
And to draw the precious ones...
The sweet pretties...The magical ones...
Of which the dark elves, were but one bunch...

The old gypsy, dropped to her bottom
next to her nature gifted feast,
of nuts and berries,
and began to munch absentmindedly;
contented as a cow, chewing it's cud,
for a few minutes; staring into the fire,
that blessedly, was growing, not diminishing
before her care worn countenance and dead eyed gaze.

Finishing her dinner, she burped delicately,
took a deep breath, collected her thoughts,
to begin to tell a story.
To herself, and no one and everyone,
in particular...

As out beyond, the circle of blazing
lightness, that was the last exhalation
and dance of the woods spirits,
in the logs and branches...
Dusk winked out,
with the last exhalation
of the sun, and darkness,
landed and fell with a bang,
upon the vertigren glen.

Shapes began to slip from the thickets,
and materialize, here, there, everywhere
about the lost deep in her thoughts, gypsy...

Dark elves and their counterparts,
the elves of lightness; wolds sprites;
water nymphs of all varieties;
fairies both dark and light;
a small herd of unicorns,
also known as stumbling elders;
and a wonderous packs of wolves
and coyotes, all the children
of the night; even, on the outskirts,
peeking over the ring of trees,
a handful of dragons' teeth begrizzled
and behorned mazards, appeared above,
the crowns of the tallest trees...

Once more the old bat inhaled,
drew one more deep breath,
and on her next exhale,
began to do, what
she did best...

Tell a story,
to anyone,
that would
listen...

[anirbas]

Once upon a time...
Do you not agree,
the best fairytales,
start with that line?

Be that as it may...
Once upon a time...
There lived a moody fairy,
name of Mergatroit Ethelrood...
And let me tell you, Mergatroit,
that teensy dame, was as puffy
as an old, warty toad! I tell you,
she ranted! She raved! She positively
foamed at the mouth! At times so loudly
she nagged and ragged, citizens down south,
swear they heard her every word! Absurd!

That's what Mergatroit, thought of that, in a word...
Absurd! Perhaps they caught a few snatches,
a sentence, here and there...
But every word, no way!

Often, her fellow inhabitants,
of the Verdigris Glade,
of Mergatroit, they were afraid...
She just didn't act like a normal fairy...

She cursed and she spat, didn't spread
sunshine and glitterdust...In fact,
most horrendous of all...Mergatroit
bitched about the honor of carrying
her own great-great-great-great,
and so on, grandmother's wand!

Had been witnessed,
using the business end
of it, to draw a line in the sand!

Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Moaned her fellow faeries,
at the Council of Wands and Wings. Outloud,
right in front of the queen, no less!
Who was related to Mergatroit,
as her mother's sister...

Queen Isinglass, could only look at them...
Poo-poo their objections to Mergatroit
being allowed to carry a wand, at all...
Some even talked of having her defrocked!
Shorn of her wings...Left to walk the forest
loam, amongst the creepy, crawly things...

This outright, Queen Iss, booed and hissed...
No child of her sainted mother's bloodline,
would be treated in such an abysmal manner...

Instead, she entreated, her courtiers
be patient...Mergatroit, was afterall,
just a baby, in fairy years...Fifty,
is awful young, to be expected,
to live up to responsibility,
just yet...

And in private, she berated Mergatroit,
for abusing her great-great-great-great,
and so on, grandmother's wand...

To which, Mergatroit, did respond...
I didn't ask for this wand...
Sounding just like the teenager,
she was, in fairy years, that is...

I don't want to be a fairy.
I don't want to spread sunshine,
and glitter! I don't want to spend
my days, a twittering, here and there!

Well, then my dear, what is it,
you wish to be, if not a fairy?
Queen Isinglass, asked exasperatedly,
of her sister's moodily, wayward daughter...

Mergatroit, didn't hesitate with her answer...
I want to be a bee...Yes, yes...Oh to be a bee, Auntie.
The life of a bee, would be the ideal life for me!
Each is born, knowing it's purpose, it's job...
Takes care of those responsibilities, then dies...

At this, Queen Isinglass, had had enough!
Waved her wand, in aggravation,
and a copious amount
of lavender and silver fairy dust,
floated from it's pointed tip,
to land upon Mergatroit.

And as it settled, mantling her shoulders,
in irridescent spangles...Strange things,
begin to happen to the moody little fairy...

She grew extra legs...Four of them,
to be exact...The two she had,
became tiny forelegs,
at the top, of her
now seperated,
from her abdomen,
ribcage! Antenna,
graced her head,
and her graceful,
fairy wings,
mulitiplied,
from two,
to four!

And buzz...
Buzz...Buzz...
Mergatroit had her wish!
She was a bee...Flitting and buzzing,
as free as she wanted to be...
Without the added weight, of her
great-great-great-great,
and so one, grandmother's wand...

She joined a hive...
And there she did thrive,
in mindless activity...
Until the day she died...
When she flew into a cottage window...
And the farmer's wife, swatted her to the ground,
and stomped on her, til she was no more...

Moral of this fairytale,
although it isn't a fable...
It's better to be a moody fairy...
Than to be a happy, dead bee...

~*~

As the story ended,
the old gypsy wench,
nodded then dropped
her head, to her chest;
and promptly passed out,
surrounded by her circle
of magical friends, sitting up,
her shadow dancing in the snapping
and crackling flames of the roaring fire.

A cacophony of snores leaving
her bewrinkled lips, even the dragons'
would have been proud to own
as a song of slumber, of their own...

[anirbas]

And as she slept, her dreams,
rose upwards from her silver maned head...
Continuing to entertain her audience
of both the children of the day
and the night-elves, both
dark and light; fairies,
both the goody-goody kind,
and the moody-moody kind, as well;
nymphys and sprites;
satyrs, centaurs, unicorns
and dragons, alike...

All stood watch round the ancient
hominid...As the song of slumber,
escaped her lips, a dragon
would have been,
proud to own,
as it's own...

The old bat slept on...
As the bats in the belfry of her dreams
escaped her convuluted cranium...

First appearing, as drifts of platinum
smoke drift, drift, drifting
away and upwards from the shell of her ears...

Two thin columns, connecting, conjoining,
entwinning, above her grizzle haired pate...

To transmorgriph, shapeshift...
Into the duel forms...
Of a man and a woman dancing...
And ah, what an inflagrante delicto,
the silver fog wrapped couple performed,
in arabesques and twirls
above the old gypsy's mazard.

As eventide deepened into the twilight zone,
her dancing dream continued on past false dawn...

Which was the dark elves cue, the show was over...
Or at least for them...As they scurried back
into the shadows provided them by the overhanging
crowns of the various trees, ringing the verted glade.

Took one last look, at the silvern figures,
like graceful snakes with arms and charms,
above the old bat's head...Then melted,
into the inky blackness, where the kiss
of the sun never reaches...Even in broad daylight...

As true dawn, peaked it's aurorian beams,
over the horizon, the old gypsy grunted...
Lifted her head, and her dreams, went to bed...

She stretched, with a plethora of creaks
from her fragile, overworked old bones...
Dragged herself up from the ground...

And let forth a bubble, that popped loudly,
that issued not from her ears nor her lips,
but, instead from her nether regions...


The old bat smiled ruefully,
remembering her dream,
as her own body's emissions,
assailed her sensitive nostrils.

Thinking to herself,
as she walked away,
from her own toxic fumes...
Dreams, like that bubble,
belong behind me...

As she wandered off into the trees,
disappearing to take care of her morning ablutions,
one by one, the sweet pretties disappeared,
back from whence they came...

Save the fairies...They took to the air...
Flittering and fluttering
in a twittering mob, everywhere...

Somewhere, hidden away
in the copious tree crowns,
a mockingbird hit top note first...
Scansorially racing the musical scale,
up and down, as the sun broke fully,
over a new day's horizon...

And the beginning of a new story
to unfold in the telling...

[anirbas]

Soon wilt rise the fatted calf moon...
O'er the landscape animated with the creatures,
both imagined and real within the Vertigris Glade.

Be that as it may, for now, Luna hasn't quite
come to full bloom; and a hoary ancient slice
of a twisted crone, resumes her position
before the fire she built and has kept burning;
banked and embered by day, a conflagaration
of warmth and welcoming of the wandering
mind, heart and spirit, comes the eventide.

The dotty but winsome old crone,
looked round at the odd gathering
of magical and natural creatures alike,
lounging in various poses about the leaping
flames of crimson and topaz of her well tended fire.

A wonderous look suffused her face,
as she gazed for a moment
into each individual countenance.

From the tiniest of the fairies,
no bigger than phosphorescent gnats;
to the largest of the sagacious dragons;
and all the othernworld fauna betwixt and between,
from centaurs to satyrs to unicorns,
to nymphs and sprites-the old bat
smiled at each individually,
before hocking and spitting
in a most unseemly manner
into the fire. An action
which caused the dark elves
to cackle and chuckle,
and set the moody fairies,
to nattering and tittering
amongst themselves.

Where the old gypsy's spittle landed
amongst the dancing blades of fire,
puffs of green sparks showered upwards-
flecks of whirling, sparkling confetti
amongst the flames, cindering, then disappearing.

Something about this particular grizzle
haired crone wasn't quite right. She seemed solid;
yet simultaneously out of focus,
dim and wavery, from some angles;
almost holographical, in nature...

But, it mattered naught, to the children
of the forest and the night.
What mattered was that she set and settle
herself and begin the ginning and spinning
of yet another yarn, to take them through
the possible horrors beyond the broad,
macropterously winged shoulders
of the draconic beings
circling the ring of trees;
circling the open and meadowed glade;
animated with all the beings
circling the crusty hag's
crackling, hissing and roaring
campfire of the forgotten and invisible.

Or not...

Presently, the wretched crone
did just that. Assumed the storytelling
position. Dropped to the ground,
legs criss-crossed applesauce,
stared into the flames
of citrine, azurine
and carnilian;
whilst she collected
her thoughts, circling like hounds
in her mind, biting at their tails;
cleared her throat and spoke,
"Once upon a time..."

"Mama, she used that same line,
when she started the last story she told,"
observed an effervescent, no bigger than a grain
of rice, bright for her age, fairy childling.

Her mother quickly moved to silence her impudence,
but the old crone merely cackled, and motioned
for parental mercy for the wonderously
tiny being with a wave
of her knob gnarled fingers.

"Oh, let the mite be," the old gypsy
spat from between, wrinkle haunted
and plagued thin lips,
long since kissed
by the succulent
mouth of love or youth.

"She's only stating the obvious.
Be that as it may...Where was I? Hmmm...
Yes...Yes..." The batty crone's brow
laddered with wrinkles as she struggled
to remember, where she'd left off...

"Ah, yes. Once upon a time,
down the road a piece,
neither here nor there,
as it is a locus buried
in the annals of historical lore..."

The dotty dame, scratched furiously
at her unruly silvern haired pate,
as though a flea bothered her there;
instead of the itch of a thought,
she searched for in her time mangled brain.

In the glade, it was rumored,
she had miraculously outlived
the rule of seven different kings.
But, that had to be false...
No human being could live that long...
And yet, this one had, by hook or crook...
Perhaps with just a bit of the use of magic...
She was afterall, a gypsy...Born with the roots
and threads of magic, twinning and twisting,
through the still bubbling and burbling
thickness of her red, red blood...

"Yes. Yes. Once upon a time,"
she repeated herself once more to the distress
of the rice grain sized fairyling,
animatedly batting her equally
tiny wings in agitation,
equal to the tapping of a toe,
in aggravation.

The withered bane fixed a baleful rolling eye,
on the fairy childling, and pointedly repeated
herself, once more..."Once upon a time,
neither here nor there, done the road a piece,
this way or the other, up or down the beaten path,
at one end or the other of it, once stood
a magnificent castle with rooks and spires,
galore, mounting the very breast of the heavens,
fashioned of blocks of milk white agate,
that glistened in the noonday sun;
and turned roseate in the setting
of the same day's sun, each dusk."

"This was a special kingdom,
requiring a special castle
of such beauteously, chameleonic stone.
One presided over by three sisters,
whom had sworn to uphold the protection
of their shared landholdings, as a triumvirate
of queens, to their shared royal mother,
upon her deathbed. Most days of the week,
the trio managed to uphold this vow...
But, occasionally, one or the other
of the sisters would have a bad hair day,
feel slighted or ignored, and then the thread
of civility would be ripped to snarls
as the court of the three queens
became fraught and tangled
with intrigue and trickery.
Whilst their individual retinues
of ladies in waiting, traipsed back
and forth between the quarreling threesome,
passing and spreading gossip, that only murked
the swirling bilious waters of jealousy, further.

The crone halted her monologue, at this point,
raised her hand in a most ladylike gesture,
covered her mouth, and belched like a sailor,
behind her palm, in a most onerous manner.

"Excuse me," she spoke in a near this side
of purring, raspy voice. "Not bad manners,
just some right jolly berries and nuts,
I had earlier, beloved ones."

She winked at the chuckling dark elves
and the nattering and twittering moody fairies,
of which Mergatroit was not one...
Per her example, moody fairies
no longer chose to leave home...
They simply hung around
and made homeland pest
of themselves...
And hung out,
rebelliously,
against their parents'
wishes with the dark elves...

Shaking her head, absentmindedly,
of the cobwebs with the spiders intact,
inside her thoughts, the near toothless hag,
picked up the thread of her story.

"Once upon a time,
in this land of once upon a time,
there came such a day, as I just spoke of,
in the Queendom of the Three Queens.
On a day of out of sortedness,
perhaps the onslaught of pms,
at this point in time,
who knows? There
was a falling out,
betwixt and between,
the trio of highnesses.
To this day, no one knows for sure,
what led to this particular battle...
Howsomever, tis been rumored, as usual,
twas one felt estranged and ignored,
by the othern two sisters,
that lead to this bloodiest
of hair pulling style tantrums,
betwixt and between,
the royal fruit
of their dead mother's
once birth pain wracked loins.

And a dark day it twas for the land,
at the end of the beaten path,
neither here nor there...
As the queenly sisters conspired
with demons in the evening shadows
to gain come uppance over one the other.
Then, turned aboot face, consorted with angels
on the heads of pins to gain deliverance
from the presupposed curses,
they laid and wished upon one another,
in their furious singlemindedness,
to trade tit for tat..."

"They consulted their individual wizards,
for enchantments and spells,
to use to bewitch the ladies
in waiting of one the other,
to divulge possible pertinent information,
about one the other, to be used
in the come uppance, of one the other."

"In this time, it is said,
both day and night, great clouds
of colored smoke could be seen rising
and wafting above the milk white agate
stone blocks of their shared castle.
Sometimes green, otherntimes pink,
more oftern than naught,
a vile, bilious yellow;
as their individual
wizards slaved
at various
brews and potions."

"To pique the scabs of one the other's
royal egos and equally royal moods,
the royal sisters, sent ironic gestures,
both far and wide, to queens in othern lands.
False accolades and empty favors,
normally reserved for one another...
When these three sisters,
had a hissy fit and fell into a cat fight,
with one another, I'm telling you,
it was a royal mosh pit
and a major mess!"

"As each dance, dance, danced
about the fire of her own anger,
danced the shallow dance
of the glassine surface.
Brittle fixed smiles of pretense,
below parrot feathered and bejeweled
masks of skullduggery and trickery, galore!"

[anirbas]

The now sleepy eyed rice grain sized,
fairyling mite, spoke up and questioned,
"What's the moral of this fable, Granny?"

Instead of chiding her, the dotty old dame,
smiled, more flashed a near toothless grimace,
in the fairy childling's direction, indulgently
and said, "I'm not sure there is a moral
to this story. Though there surely came to pass,
an ending, of sorts of the trio of sister queens.
In this latest of their snits, I speak of,
as the alternate circling bands of magic,
alchemized from the thoughts and fingertips
of their individual wizards, grew in number
and strength, to combat one the other...
One day, the milk while agate castle,
just up and disappeared...Just disappeared,
into into thin air, like that." The ancient crone,
snapped her fingers, for emphasis, then carried
on with her monological fairytale.
"Disappeared behind a swirling,
rainbow colored cloud overflowing
with acrid and pungent smells.

"Evermore, it's naught been seen...
Except sometimes, shimmering in the aftermist,
of a particularily rain driven day or eventide.
Or the occasional emananence of bickering,
overheard from down the beaten path,
neither here nor there,
in the scheme of things,
when the wind blows,
a certain direction."

"No, sweet youngling,
no moral to a story of playing mind games,
in a tit for tat, if you do this
I'll do that fashion...Though perchance,
just this sideways moral...When queens pedastal
pawns to aggravate one the other and consult
the rolling of bones and cause the concoction
of potions and talisman, alike to be made;
for use or protection, of one against the other,
it often bodes ill for naught only,
those involved directly,
but those indirectly
as well...
Think of the innocent inhabitants,
trapped in the milk white agate castle
that disappeared, in sumptious clouds
of tri-colored smoke, that day,
so long ago, once upon a time,
neither here nor there,
at the end, one way or the other,
up or down the beaten path,
leading out of this vert forest
circled and girdled glade...
Except for a faint resonation
of querulous echoes,
in the near distance,
when the wind blows,
just right or wrong,
as the case, maybe..."

The offbeat old dame yawned,
in the now dimly flickering
light thrown from the campfire,
in the wee hours of the morn;
girlishly giggled then added,
"The end," in an oddly youthful
voice...No longer cracked
and rasped with the weathering
of time. Those magical and natural
beings, left still awake,
did a double take,
as the old gypsy,
had seemingly wavered...
Shifted in the telling of the tale...
Transmorgriped before their very eyes,
during a seemingly collective and shared blink,
into a youthful and glowing maiden,
of naught much more than twenty winters.

Skin no longer darkened down, to dull nut brown,
by one to many summers spent on the trail,
beneath the mercilessly, bewrinkling kiss
of the sun. No, now as pure and unlined,
as the surface of cream
poured into a bowl,
was her complection.

Hair no longer faded and grizzled;
but a glorious golden mane
that would have flowed to her knees,
had she been standing.

Eyes no longer,
a watery,
film cauled,
off-grey, in color;
Instead, a stunning shade of blue...
The exacting crisp hue
of a pair of perfectly matched
glimmering blue topaz stones.
Reflecting the waning firelight,
her orbiters seemed to burn and dance,
with the brilliance of simultaneously
ethereal and unholy blue and saffron flames.

Changed physically, the old gypsy
turned born again maiden, was still
clothed in her beggardly rags;
and appeared not to notice,
her odd transformation;
as she promptly,
curled into herself,
and fell asleep sitting up,
her chin tucked to her chest,
much as she had before,
after ending her last story.
This time, as warmed by the glowing
embers of the dying fire, as by the copious
mantle of golden hair she seemingly
had unbeknownst to her,
disappeared within the tangled
yellow confines of...

As false dawn, irradiated the far horizon,
the dark elves prudently slipped away from the fire,
left the comfort of the circle, melted into the deeper
darkness of the thick circle of trees,
ringing the vertigris glade.

And for a moment,
not a single sound was heard or made...

Until a gentle cacophony of thready snores,
emanated from the slumbering sitting up,
once upon a time, ancient gypsy...
Transmorgriped to beauteousness maiden or naught...
Her tendancy to snore, remained natural, to her...

Later upon the morrow,
the old bat turned youthful beauty,
abrupty awoke with a start,
as quickly as she had fallen
into the chasm of sleep, earlier.

She waved in an irritated manner,
at the bands of fairies loitering in the air,
about her face and the mane of her hair.

Yawning, the dame gazed bleary eyed,
at the small flocks of satyrs cavorting
nimbly about, the verted glade;
teasing the unicorns dining upon
the lush blades of grass,
by running under their bellies,
and from between the horned equines'
gracefully shaped and turned limbs.

She stretched and rose slowly as an old woman...
Seemingly unaware of her changling state...
The previously waved away fairies, drew closer
once more, out of curiousity as much a true
lack of fear of her...

Seeing the fire had banked down
to mostly charcoal, the gypsy
made towards her store of wood.

"Just a wee bit to wake it up,"
she spoke aloud to the cloud
of tittering fairies following
in her ambling wake.

When she bent forward,
to grab a few sticks
from the pile of branches,
masses of the golden hair
now covering her head,
and flowing to her knees,
also fell forward,
tangling and snarling
in the stacked wood.

"What the bloody dratted h*ll?
Not again!" The old bat cursed
and wailed, as she worked to untangle
herself, from the pile of sticks,
heretofore, stacked so neat and well.

Once accomplishing this feat,
she held the messy mass of gold
back with one hand, whilst she grabbed
a few branches to perk up the fire.

After laying the sticks across the few glowing
embers left from the last eventide's fire,
the still cursing and muttering beneath her breath
dotty dame, strolled to her pack, rooted
around in it, til she pulled out a wickedly
sharp looking, wave edged dagger.

Posthaste, and to the nosey, twittering mob
of fairies surprise, she began to hack at the gob
of unmanageably long hair with the knife.
Continuing to curse her luck as she sawed furiously
at first one thick hank of it, and then another.
Her newly blued eyes blazing and glittering azure
stones, in her fresh milk colored face.

When the last of it fell to the ground,
she smiled in a satisfied manner.
As the vain fairies gazed wide eyed,
in utter horror, at the haircut
the gypsy had given herself.

Though still beauteous in it's radient coloring
of shining gold, the exact shade of the sun...
The hair now stood out from her head, in uneven
one and two inch layers of choppiness...

A coiffure no self respecting fairy
would dare to sport! Well, perhaps
a moody fairy, like Mergatroit...

Never one to waste anything,
if she could help it,
the gypsy sat down,
drew the shorn gold tresses
to her, and began going through the motions,
of turning the loose strands into a plaited rope.

When finished, she laid it aside,
returned to her pack, pawing deeply
to the bottom of it, and withdrew
a coil of hair rope, she'd already braided...
To which she worked the new length of gold
into the length of...It came in handy,
in this manner...Used to tie bundles
of wood and whatnot, together...


Judging from the amount of hair rope
she'd pulled from the pack,
already plaited...
The fairies surmised
this had happened before...
More than a few times...

[anirbas]

~warning. sidebar poem. not sure where its going...if anywhere. LoL~

I am a crone I do not mind
being alone I don't require
a retinue of mindless
simpering fans hanging
from my coattails or a throne
I mind being dragged down and under