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Hello and welcome, my dear digital friends.

I have always been a massive fan of fantasy as a genre. And by extension, as many of you who regularly read my poetry know, mythology.

Within the mythic realm, I am particularly fascinated by fairy tales.

This week’s poem attempts to deconstruct meter and rhyme, while still conveying the traditional whimsy of a literal fairy tale.

I really do not want to comment too much on this poem other than disclosing it originated from one of today’s Twitter poetry word prompts: void.

Please come join our troubled fairies in their profoundly existential crisis. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As always, I would love to hear your thoughts / feelings / reactions to this poem in the Comments / Leave A Reply section at the bottom of this page.

-PS Conway ☘️ ☘️ ☘️

☘️ ☘️ ☘️ ☘️ ☘️

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a new day dawns riven, not with birdsong,

but raw with the keening of the Fair Folk;

for in between their cries lie pauses long

which shatter reality, murder and choke

the oft soft sanctity of the holy glen.

the First Tree has died; as has the fairy shine

which since the dawn of time has lit the path

to the secrets and wonderments of life

to the connections and beauties of death

the divinity both of gods and men.

before the Tree, the Absence reigned, a void

so black no green grassly blades could take seed,

no roots in its shadows for poetry to feed

her sacred words, let love bloom… now destroyed.

the wee pixies’ wings cease beating, the glee of flight

lost in their mourning, oh what could it mean?

to see the First made Last, how could the light,

e’er so bright, guide their magicks in between

life’s brief candle and the bane of mayhem’s flame?

when all hope seems to dim, fade like a rainbow,

a cry of joy lilts near the roots of the Tree

a shoot grows new and noble, so aglow

with its own shine, the fae fill with felicity,

the First made Last made Next, albeit ne’er the same.