Boiling frogs

We break bread with ogres, caretaking the promises of this magic bean deal. Smell the blood. Grind the bones. Breathe the colour of rust. I want to believe in dragons, in golden harps, golden eggs, golden knights. My ribbons and bows cut and curled on the edge of a tamed sword. I want to stay in endless skies, endless dreams, endless climbs, when even the memory of decent is lost, rotted away with the worm filled witches. I want to be wrong on those rare, silent nights, when I remember the sound of bells, tolling in the village below.

Tears turn to ice in the might have been castles of this fairy tale. I have seen the light of dead stars, sharp and splintered out across the inside of my eyelids. And still I long for the sweet warmth of boiling.

I asked you once why we dream of Once Upon a Time from the scalding depths of this black cauldron. And you smiled like I was a child and told me that coming up for air is always harder than drowning.