Away
They called her a child of the Gentry’s own race,
With the mist in her eyes and the light in her face.
A creature of silver, of shadow and air,
With no roots to hold her, and no heart to care.
They thought she would drift like the white bog-cotton,
With no past to bind her, no grief unforgotten.
For the Fae have no weight in the heavy, dark clay—
They are only a whisper that wanders away.
But she was no whisper, no thing made to stray,
No pretty, lost creature to fade into grey.
She carried her sorrow, her love, and her name,
The weight of her wanting, the bite of her shame.
And when she walked out with her heart in her hands,
It was not to be lost, but to choose where she stands.
A.M. Kray, 2026