The Last Unicorn’s Lament

They caught her not with ropes or chains

but with a looking-glass,

its face so wide and framed so fine

with gilt-edged lies and brass.

___________________________

"Behold," they whispered, "perfect one,

how dull your coat appears!

Your horn lacks luster, chipped with age—

see here? And here? And here?"

___________________________

She who had drunk from comet’s wake

and danced on diamond frost,

now stood for hours—days—then years—

counting every flaw and cost.

___________________________

The meadow forgot her footsteps,

the stars her midnight songs,

while merchants sold her molted hairs

and filed her horn to prongs.

___________________________

The children came with wide, pale eyes

(but not to marvel—no),

to poke and pry and pluck at her

then yawn and turn to go.

___________________________

"Strange," they’d muse, "how ordinary

the legendary seems.

Perhaps we imagined her radiance—

or was it in our dreams?"

___________________________

Now when the moon is thin and sharp

as that damned mirror’s edge,

a ghostly shape still paces there

along the canyon’s ledge:

___________________________

a twisted thing of bone and need,

still staring at its face,

while far beneath the hungry earth,

her real horn glows with grace.

From the Tarnished Codices of: The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi" - where truth hides when beauty is measured.