I am a changeling child, a creature of wind and the wild,
A dance in the moonlight and sunlight sometimes defiled.
I am a day in December, the crackle of a dying ember,
A moment soon forgotten and a last chance to remember.
I am an agnostic pilgrim, a former faith grown thin,
A quiet voice in your head and an unquiet deafening din.
I am a witch in the wood, a delver of shouldn’t and should,
A spell cast among the trees and the riddle of couldn’t and could.
I am the last notes of a song, an intruder who will never belong,
A dead soul among the living and a life gone horribly wrong.
I remain just outside the door, a defect in the heart’s deep core,
A questioner of answers and a believer only in God as metaphor.
I am a soul neither wicked or good, a perspective misunderstood,
A phantom among the trees hidden by cape and hood.
I am a prophet self-styled, a glimpse of a smile un-smiled,
A fairy circle refugee or so says this changeling child.
