I once wrote of faeries
who skimmed the dewdrops
of my morning window
But the Queen she's unfulfilled on her gilded throne now.
And you don't stop
for the pieces you once crushed underneath your feet
rearrange your life now, and walk straight ahead
leave the jesters to languish behind in your bed.
But its me that's still standing
in my fixed spot in the crowd
thinking about what my statue is doing
on that pedestal in your head.
And maybe, the Queen and I, we're just the same
two empty-headed figurines
in a mind that begs dreams of urchins.
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