The Great Lie

It wasn’t the Otherworld that took my flowers
We had them when we bedded him
Bloomed with him 
Planned a future with him
An escape
From a sun-too bright and forceful
A sun under which we would eventually wither 
For even the most rooted of blooms cannot stand 
The harshness of flame

It is not in our nature to be controlled
We too are of the wild
We came from it
Were born from it
Pulled up from the fabric of that which births us all.
We would have grown well wild without the walls and the beds - the control.

The bed *we* made though, was with the Huntsman
We would have grown well in his woods
Freely
Sheltered from the harsh sun-lord and his grasping ways 
From the curse that dogs his heels and moves him to ill deeds
Oh how we loved that stag-hunting lord!

We were still of flowers when we were judged
It was those men who took my blooms and made them feathers
Who took my leaves and made them claws.
It was they who told the lie that my lord would have brought withering death had he lived
It was they who confiscated the flowers when they took back control 
It was they who took the ‘we’ and made me ‘me’
And I will never forget
For now I have claws and fly through the dark
And I will have my vengeance yet





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