My little cocoon has narrowed to this

and only this;

a tender thread that slips

through my fingers

even as the outside world

turns to Narnia.

 

As the day dawns

it steals

the crawling vines,

the armies of refugees,

fleeing the unspoken apocalypse

the three babies we saved,

and the fantasy tokens

spat out by a strange man

in Colombia.

 

What’s scarier?

Being trapped in a dark

fantasy,

or being trapped without

any fantasy

at all?