The Bright Unicorn

The young woman softly treads over damp, soft earth.
The holy stars shine through the branches of the trees.
In a thin coat for a local college, her favorite soccer team.
Burgundy and dark wine red, logo of a people lost, memory.
Her old sneakers let in the water, as if earth was washing her feet.
Her jeans to thin against the dark and the cool, the sighing morning.
She hugs herself tight, thinks of her friend Engalina, on that team.
She is graduating in the spring, and she’ll be on her way, as she is whole.
By a wide and silver river the young woman sits, to see the bright unicorn.
Is it the whisper of madness, or the need of something pure, or is it really real?
Beneath the holy stars, in the cold late winter air, the unicorn bright, gently white,
comes out of the forest, and looks her in the eye, whinnies, drinks from the river.
Once, when she as a girl, playing her own little game at recess, by the chain link fence,
she looked into the forest, on that glorious April day, when the world warmed up again,
and she saw the bright unicorn there, like in the stories she read, the dreams in her head.
She smiled at the unicorn, and it lowered it’s head to her, as if she were a queen of nature.
The bright unicorn drinks it’s water, and the drug of the light soothes the young woman.
The radiation of fear and curdled hate slip away, and she has a feel of that lost magic,
of the innocence and infatuation she wasted on black death and trying to burn the world.
The bright unicorn loves her, and they’re connected by the holy stars, and what she could still be.
The young woman sits by the river and the bright unicorn bows it’s head, turns into the forest.
Silent tears roll down her cheeks, and the holy stars seems as if they will come into her heart.
Engalina will be gone by June, and again a friend will say goodbye, and another star withheld.
One day, the young woman hopes, she will be something more, a holy star herself, finally healed.

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