‘Tis hard to untwist the vines that tangle themselves
In the garden of Victorian high class
The faeries of the night rise from
the petal sheets of their flower beds
to ride upon giant owls,
rest in their feathered wings
Flutter in circles and nightscape to the stars

At the downtrodden grass
high pitched laughter holds hands to form rings
Each female faery flutters like a moth,
To the lit candles burning through his window
Each and every enchanted and charmed by the aristocrat’s son
They come and they come and they come

Below his window
Climbing up the picket fence
She’s bound to reach his nightly mess
Her gradual ascent is disturbed by the faeries’ knocking hence
Her path crawls confused
She misses a turn or step
And gets all tangled again
Her knots get stronger
as she watches him let them all in
Except for her leaves pushed off the ledge
And she’s back again
Tortured, twisted, and tangled
at the bottom of the fence
to meet the bug bottom dirt dwellers
She’s too natural for him
Too beautiful to see
He overlooks the beauty beneath
Amongst her blossoming buds
are things of greatest might
that he will never have because he won’t let her into his sight