There is all the warmth of humanity
glowing in her eyes, but I
know her for what she is:
with her veins crackling with
the blood of the Fair Folk and
some inherent hint of cruelty
lurking in the corner of her mouth.
She sparkles in the morning sun like
razor-blades or broken glass;
pretty enough to draw the eye,
but wicked to the touch.
The Seelie Court might call her home,
but she is too much
one of us some days;
she rose up too close to the fire
and the embers of humanity flew up
and caught in her eyes.
No matter that she glitters sometimes
like faerie lights on the horizon,
drawing us to our doom;
some seed of humanness has sprouted
in the caverns of her heart, unfurling
like a night flower.
(Home is where the heart is, and
hers has–in its belligerence–
burrowed its way between human tragedy
and George Lucas.)
She might laugh as I burn
and then cry over the ashes.
The fey are funny like that.