Phantom Limbs

A hollow deep in my core, something missing before sleep.  I don’t know what was there before, and maybe it’s still gone in the morning.

Maybe it’s pain and sickness stealing pieces in each surge that never return.

Maybe it’s the stress of running on Ethereal legs to gather the perfect flowers in time to make it through the gates before they close, hoping to satisfy the Faerie Queen.

Maybe it’s that I have no pearls to line my wreath-offerings because the seas all dried up on me.  Maybe there were no flowers at all because the forests and fields have all gone arid and all I could find were thistles and twigs.

Maybe the Fairest One did not appreciate desert stones for their lack of shining.  Maybe she kept a piece of me for penance, for one cannot enter her realm without the proper gifts.

But what did my Lady keep?  

Is it the master scroll my cells read to make energy?

Is it my childhood smile: the only one I ever knew that special day I gleaned the Land of Eternal Spring before it vanished from my sight for good?

Is it the Book of Secrets locked in my heart: the tomb of my holiest moments?

Is it the Jewel of Memory where my map was kept to help me remember where to find my wings again when the time comes?  Am I cursed forever to the ground, with phantom pangs I can’t recognize as a yearning to fly?

Or is it the place where pain is wrapped in love; did she take my longing tears coated in their sheen of hope: the glimmer of expectancy my soul held close, adorned with the Roses of Recall and kissed with the Song of Origin?

Is the entrance sealed shut for the rest of time that I will wander the troubled earth in search of something I shall never find: the spark to light my eyes and heart, the knowing from where I come and where I shall return when this duty of Humanity is over?

For when one does not blossom enough for The Queen’s fragrant feast, The Banquet of Belonging is demolished, the portal is closed, and the Fae-Song of home is silent forevermore.

And now my tears are an endless shower for gravity’s ground, that the soil may grow fertile once again.  The desert will transform into a lake and then an ocean.  These parched lands will drink the prize of my grief and never thirst for as long as I am here.  

Then I will learn to breath under water and grow a different limb that I may one day swim.
Art: Dreams of Atlantis by Josephine Wall.

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