As if you had to hope, you tried.
There wasn't any truth denied.
There wasn't any evidence, to rein
you in by rains of sensory deceit
or trickery. No optical illusions,
we - no auditory counterfeits. For
it's all here, and it all fits.
There once were fairy tales of dells
and forests, dragonless with elves
made up all stiff like mannequins.
We've done them up in motley,
smart as harlequins and rode them off
in pantomime upon our costumed,
clumsy back - a mighty hoss
we made between us two - so many
trips we took, so many forth
and back again, for denizens
to safely cart away.
In case it burned.
And when it did, we went to town
with trucks of elves, turned out
and all marked down to sell.
And if no one would buy? Well.
Towns burn too, you know. In such
fine ways we cleared out youth,
the magic and accouterment we always knew
would have to go. Washed it, wiped it
clean as snow and settled in
for greater things. Now it's
all here. And it all fits. It's bound
for greater things we are, and bound
by greater sentiments. There wasn't
any truth denied. There wasn't any
evidence, but finally or now, we find
a relevance, upwelling from within
to take us long ways 'round, and
all the long ways back of homes.
We know what we shall finally find:
behind some picket line of fence,
with sole protesting garden gnome:
a lasting peace. In lasting place,
where finally we'll be released.
The finish line. Home safe,
yell "base!" and slap your hand
on cold concrete, as all the chasers
running lost, yell "Tag!" "Not it!"
until they're beat.
