Cover art: “The Beguiling of Merlin”
by Edward Burne-Jones
He was a lover of words.
Words were a magic brew.
She had worked an enchantment, but he knew:
He had taught it to her.
They talked, and they spoke the words together.
They formed them; so they became their parents.
He had let her know,
The methods of the using them,
Of becoming words, and other well-behaved children.
He knew… True, True.
He charmed her, but he could not escape.
Or probably now knowing
– After some unforgettable discourse some certain time,
post-euphoric swivel of red waters fine,
Sparkling, rich, from the fruit of the vine, –
The curio she truly was,
He never wanted to?
Or perhaps after a trinket shared,
And another given in return, trustingly dared.
Oh what words; what words.
Oft and repeating.
What thoughts, what thoughts,
Sometimes strong, sometimes fleeting,
What books would he burn!
What runes would he churn?
She was not an ordinary one, she.
The becoming reflection, in the mirror, he.
His subtle weakness in a hidden strength.
That was, ironically, hidden to only him.
And so she made him see it.
And so he is in her debt.
And she forswore any betrayal.
And so the payment was himself.
But it was not demanded for; it was freely given.
Albeit at first unsure, but never unwilling.
Now locked in a tree, only able to speak, for eternity.
Self-convinced that all of it was to be.
He is a lover of words.
He charmed her. He spoke the words.
Though it seems to be that he spoke his own undoing:
She became the words. ♦
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