The swirling faeries

were dancing in the field

of dreams, allowing everything

to stain the chocolate on the child

in a peasant green madness,

the crisp fortunes

of a golden sparkle

that would make the world together again.

It would be a crystal,

a crystal to envelop

the entire world in a solace,

a freedom not worthy,

kneeling by the sides of fate,

grasping the gravelly hand,

and seething into this pure world.

She was there,

wearing a spastic dress,

not allowing a space of decency,

not telling a side story.

The dress was simple, plaid with pink ribons

tied by the faery herself.

The beads were fully bare, with no outline

of fate's dressed hand. They always did say

that she was a mountain of treasure,

untouched and unsought.

I dyed the peace gold, and let myself pick at the moonlit flowers,

but instead grasping the finger of a dancing faery,

bobbing her head along to the pure world beat,

dancing wildly in the grasses that would slice open

a glare if ever it did see. But nothing like that

could deteriorate this pure world,

golden and burning in a crispness

unlike any else in virginity molten;

dirty was not a space, it was a matter,

a field so far away from the golden knives,

and as they poked up from the dark matted goodness,

they would bow a hello to the new platoon welcome.