in dreams (or: on martin and tolkien)

when the cold of winter comes
no robin hood season
the warmth is stolen
consumed
or whisked to northern world
beyond my own

(once
just once
let fantasy worlds unfold
in a world of southerly frosty winds
the kind i’ve always known)

i shall sit by a fire
that burns so bright
and sends tiny embers
at my eyes
i will open these well-loved
well-thumbed books
dragons and wargs and
characters’ quests
and sink into these places
the masters have shown

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