stained glass

In my heart there are not boundaries enough
to keep even werewolves from eating my shoes.
Where others bear armour to dim the too bright light
I walk with tattered blindfold into the morning.
It’s not so much a love of glamour, proud courage, or even
stupidity, but this bird’s nest I use for a brain.
Perhaps I was born this way;
surely there is a tendency to dance.
But I suspect, also, that a young boy once
held open a door to let the elves pass by and
looking down, found his shoes had turned to lace.
And so became the man.

20&27janvier2010