The path is cobbled with emerald stones, leading to a city with flying horses and talking scarecrows. Cowardly lions with lightning scars on their foreheads, and dogs with Cheshire grins litter the streets. Flowers bask in the golden glint of the afternoon sun, with the white rose singing an aria. An aria that speaks of a long forgotten love, buried in a chest, buried underneath a mountain, guarded by a fire-breathing dragon who is fascinated with the smell of a little man with hairy feet, unassuming that the voice it hears, echoing throughout the cave filled with mountains of rubies and sapphires, is the cause of its forthcoming demise.
The buried chest, buried underneath that mountain guarded by the fire-breathing dragon is wrapped in iron chains, held together by a silver lock. Rusted by the kisses that once covered every inch of it. No one knows how to open it, for the key has been long gone. Perhaps buried away like the rest of the chest, beneath another mountain, guarded by another beast. Perhaps. But no one knows. The secret of the forgotten key, has remained forgotten. It has become a subject of lore. Just like the fire-breathing dragon and the emerald path, and the city with flying horses and the men with hairy feet. No one talks about them now. They cross the mind, once in a while, but really, who would want to talk about cowardly lions and talking flowers, and fire-breathing dragons? Yes, the fire-breathing dragons. They’re all part of a child’s wild imagination. Just a part of a child’s imagination.
But I have something to tell you. Just come closer for a bit, closer come here, but not that close. Leave an inch of air between our faces, you wouldn’t want to feel my breath. We’re not lovers at the height of our passions, hearts bursting with the consious desire of touching our skins. Of covering each other’s lips with our mouths. No, we’re not lovers. Just strangers, walking on the same path. Searching for the same key. The key that has been long ago forgotten.
Oh yes, I had something to say. But it’s a secret, one I’m not expecting you to keep anyway.
It’s about the path with the emerald stones that leads to the city with the flying horses and the talking scarecrows. With the cowardly lions and the dogs with the Cheshire grins. You want to know how to get there. And to get there, you have to find the chest. And when you find the chest, you need the key. The key of legend and lore.
Yes, it does exist, I assure you that it’s true. The key is found right inside of you.
— We were asked to write slam poetry pieces for our Creative Writing class, and this was among my many first drafts. The first person I showed it to thought that it was too cheesy. But, somehow, whenever I read it, I can’t help but get this unexplained magical feeling. Maybe it’s because of the many references to fantasy stories we have read as children.