Nightshade was frolicking round the rusted poles of the
old swingset we used to rock our afternoon mumbles on,
whims tied to our feet
and jars filled with ladybug daydreams
abandoned in the poison sunlight.
The dances of Alchemists' crayons
didn't concern us
unless they stole our
afternoons in their unpredictable scribblings
and then the bright things would retreat
and wait for a blank sky.
Predicting our dandelion wishes by
the turning of Tarot cards and the careful
perusal of clover groves—
we searched, but the toadstools were
always empty of faerie carcasses.
A crossword puzzle for me, with
all the spaces filled in
a dragon statue for you, and a lighter
(because dreams burn the color of illusions).
We'll light it all
and draw our own futures
from the paints of our dangling whims.
Nightshade is yawning,
swings stilling, and ladybugs playing Juliet in glass towers.
We are Alchemists dancing.


A/N: Isn't it ironic how after you've written something, you go back and read it and realise you put in all these connections that you totally didn't do on purpose? This is one of those pieces. The whole thing was written on a whim, as I was just trying to get my mind off the new holes in my mouth (at this point I was refusing more pain meds, as they made me feel verrrrry strange), and when I read it later I noticed that "Alchemists" had actually subconciously become an entire motif or theme or whatever you'd like to call it.

Perhaps I shouldn't write things in altered states of mental fitness.