Quick look, look here!

    The portal spied and admired by the child

                  Is nowhere to be seen, for a brief time gone.

 

                                    Hold on, keep strong, by these words abide.

                                                      Your neck is a root, strong and prepared,

                                                                        Let it do what it must; let it hold up your head.

 

                                                  But isn't it beautiful?

                                    Isn't it just?

                  Who would choose to be weighted when they could abscond?

                                                     

    It is not a just a sign, but the mark of an entry

                  Waiting to entrance, to enhance, to imbibe

                                    The unlucky and the fortunate all the same

                                                      To partake of their merry and lustrous game.

 

                                                                       And they call, they call

                                                      With their voices they lure

                                    Those who are not of a mind to turn back.

 

                  Welcome home, welcome home

    What a joyous return!

                  Let the mindless be blithe, they know naught of their separation.

 

                                    But isn't it strange?

                                                      Isn't it odd?

                                                                        They've no special features. Do they belong?

 

                                                      It is not just a sun, but a warning so fierce

                                    A caveat to remind-- they are not in their place.

                  Those unfortunate few who know not what to do

    When the world they have left, and the world they indwell, have them shunned.

 

                  It is gone, lost forever,

                                    Stargazers adrift, nonplussed, disheartened

                                                      For all that they wish turned to dust.

 

                                    Remember, remember

                  The whispers are low,

    But they rest in their heads, small pests of anamnesis.

 

                  Do you recall?

                                    Do you?

                                               We miss what was different, don't you?

 

                                    But the pests are cast aside for the words children were told to abide:

                  Strong. Rooted. Prepared. On our own two feet we can stand,

    Never wishing, never dreaming of the time they floated so high.

                  They are whole now, and accepted. Ignoring the windows, pulling curtains closed.

 

                                    But it was beautiful wasn't it?

                                                      Wasn't it just?

 

-Alison Belle Bews (2015)