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She sits in the middle of her faery ring
Pulling all her important things towards the middle
She believes in omens and imports and
Holds onto stones with holes in them, ticket stubs,
Dry brown leaves, dead dragonflies.

One hand can be Him and one can be Her
Throwing shadow puppets against a blank wall
So eager to cast herself as the heroine in
All her little stories

She forgets a little more every day
(And she suspects that the
Ogre is closing in on her)