A Spell of Love,
a Fog of Confusion
cast—
I guess—
by a fantasy.
Again.
How easily I succumb
to the song
of forest spirits.

My dreaming
and my waking worlds
merge ever closer.

Inside the swirling
mystic thrill,
I must embrace the illusion,
the figures
appearing from the ether.

I ought not be shocked
when the fair elvish archer
visits me
for the first time since childhood,
invites me to her hidden camp,
and then vanishes
when I open my mouth to speak.

It seems—
as I wake into dreams—
that for every spirit
I follow down trails,
for every chirp I fervently heed
that leads
to caches of wands,
there will be ancient loves,
manifested from deep within,
who walk toward me,
possessing the sweet forms
of mighty women.

From them I shall never run.