Wicked

Old and crooked she glides across
The fairer lands, pen in hand, and
Finds the taller pine tree where she
Scrawled her signature and see’s the

Generations who have grown here too,
Flutes sound in the distance and her
Heart aches to have one more dance
On the stage centered under a million

Stars, it seems too far to hobble on
Three legs so she listens instead to
The waves of laughter rising like balloons
Multi-coloured proof that happiness is still

Nestled among these words, blue birds
Sing praises of her work, she places one
Finger to her lips in an effort to dissuade the
Perks of being recognised, and smiles fondly

At memories walking hand in hand, a marching
Band of highlights of her life, here among the
Tulips there was never any strife, they would
Sit on logs warmed by the fires light and lyrically

It was an impossibility not to fight over meter and
Rhyme simply wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, yet
Still, they would see each other reflected in the
Glass, until she remained there, the last of her kind

Scrawling hasty farewells and tearful goodbyes,
They roast marshmallows, and singe the sides, but
That does nothing to her growing pride, she remembers
Too when they made mistakes, it was never too late to

Rectify, she doesn’t lie to herself as she reaches upwards
And scratches a thin line through the bark, watches as
Her skies fade to dark, but the stars are still out and
The music still plays, soft trickle of notes drum from the

Base, gently she places her quill in the ground, and covers
It with mud and loudly, moving to a one off beat, she
Throws it away and finds her feet, among them once again
And they welcome her readily, her murder of friends

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