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Become A Deadly Weapon Now
The gypsy found the chasm and down she went. Feeling like Alice on a heavier day. Bright lights and sparks. Boots and tamberines.
She fell so hard. Carrying all those things that she carried. The things we all carry. The jingle and the jangle and the glitter that weighs like mountains. The power in a voice and how it makes you a God.
How sometimes they called you a Queen but then they forget and the glitter fades.
The bottom wasn’t as dank as she worried. There was no dormouse or white rabbit. Just the sputtering of white dove wings.
Illusions. All illusions and nowhere to run.
A laced hand placed against a mirror. A beat of a drum. The hum of falling to the other side. And in the peripheral the outstretched smirk of a Cheshire cat. Larger than the sun.