Epic Poem - Tumblr Posts

Imagine yourself in this setting, human or pony form.

The White Hart

…In those days she resembled a white hart, pallid as bone, with eyes like glowing emeralds.

A ghost, some said, and certainly fay, but few were they that ever knew the truth of what she was. Most took her for a stag. But what they saw as antlers, broad and proud, were, in truth, branches.

Though rare, sightings of her sprouted like pokeweed in Autumn, when the trees made their fiery bed upon the forest floor.

Occasionally, brave warriors hunted her. Most came back, sullen and silent, a faraway cast to their eyes. Those that spoke told stories, and none were true, though true enough for men. Of course, she never doubted her own existence, and the stories that she told to a handful of stalkers ruined their hearts for all time. When the snows came, she was invisible, a niveous form, lithe and graceful, that melted into the frozen world. And, when her buds joined at last in Spring’s green fury, she would again become invisible, slipping softly away into Summer’s viridescent heat. It was in the times between when she felt naked and vulnerable, yet she loved the bright cool sadness of Fall Only then did she fear, and the sound of horns over horses and dogs drove her deep into the heart of the woods. But she was wise, and even brilliant men are utterly dim that cannot see magic in the weave of things. Cunning and fleet, no arrow had grazed her, nor trap was laid that had not been plainly seen. For her, it was always better (and safer) to remain hidden. Whenever some bold fool, arrow knocked, and string drawn, spotted her, they shouted in rage and mourned arrows lost in vain pursuit. In the towns, their tales became songs. They joined in a chorus about how she was slain by this man or that on such-and-such a day. To save reputations and doubt spare one’s skill, the hunter’s kill, it was spun, was tragically taken by some legendary highwayman or dour wolf. These stories made her laugh for there is freedom in death, especially when one yet breathes. It amused her that no one knew her name. Those who told stories were branded  liars or madmen, but that never stopped their tongues from wagging. So rarely do men see what’s before them, and what is seen is often just themselves. These humans, she thought, would march off a cliff if they thought it would make them famous. The sane, she learned, are happy to dismiss the truth if it preserves their comfort. And that was how she liked it: safely hidden in the shadows of their denial, alone and free in the wildest places, a soul as old as the world was young.

© JM Tiffany

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Sometimes, my face unfurls

from what it's supposed to be.

And I shed my big girl clothes

And slither back into me

Sometimes I realise it's been...

one year. Flowers open their skirts

to the sun's gaze, crumple again

Pulled to death by steel wind.

Julia, I uncork and remember-

my bones sink into liquid fire

Warm again, I drink in the memory,

your face, breaths, stir embers

Alone with your ghost, I sip,

float into your reverie, see:

how your hands flutter, urgent,

bright eyed ferret, pillow lips

Sometimes, I put you back home

in my closet, where lie limp:

our dead, moth eaten uniforms

And I feel you burn my lips

before I shut you away