Pursuing Lore

and love goes
threading its existence into the framework of my story quilt
a trail of bread crumbs left for voracious pursuants
and leading to the fiery oven?
if you stop believing, close your eyes and count,
does it exist? Still? before your eyes? To antagonize, threaten, terrify?
or does the wingèd boogeyman become a figment
lost in the dregs of imagination?

leaving the spectral resonance
a ghostly chill that wrenches the guts, crawls up the spine
reminding you of something— of nothing you should long to recall
So,
Adolescence wrests the monsters from reality
Grotesque demons morphed, while,
innocence, lost, banishes the unicorn
and the Cerynian Hind hunted down.

if you cease to hope
what then to live for, aspire to?
does that, too, wither into the shades of nonexistence?
for one person? for all?
So who then forfeits love?
Gives up on believing the myth? to lay aside the quest?
The weak? the warrior?

either way, not me.
Penelope unweaves to weave again.
The lore woven into my existence.
No. Not me.

Copyright 2010. Ami Lovelace.