In Celebration of the Death of Faeries
A poem
It isn’t cute to
Believe in faeries
When you’re “grown up”
And dreams begin to
colour of pragmatism.
But faeries and dreams seldom die on their own.
Like drowning kittens
They must be held down
Until all shards of life
Are broken
And the corpse
Is discarded — -
Added to the heap
Of other murdered dreams
And daily rubbish.
Santa and his elves develop
Bright, black, empty eyes,
The Easter Bunny’s eggs
Begin to rot,
The Tooth Fairy becomes
A crone with nose & chin grappling
Where she has no teeth
Of her own.
And cease to exist
For those of us
Who reluctantly
Relinquish
The ability to believe.
So a toast, my friend,
To the smitten remains of:
Blind Santas
Bloody Easter Bunnies
And crippled Faeries
With wings plucked and stored
To build the gossamer dreams
Of children,
From we who can
No longer
See
Through children’s
Eyes.
©1983, Marilyn Wolf
Published in In Celebration of the Death of Faeries, 2018, Amazon
Update: Sept. 2022. This poem has been published in INverse:
In Celebration of the Death of Faeries — INverse Poetry Archive — Collections Hosted by the Indiana State Library (oclc.org)
