by Gadarene
Dorothy's surrendered to the wages of the world--
The beauty of Oz has faded,
The Emerald City is just a city,
Her slippers nothing more than tinted tin.
Perpetually thirteen, Dorothy was
Never meant to find love, or to know
Fulfillment of her secret crush
On the melancholy scarecrow king.
When she set out finally on her own,
Having lived in fantasy so long,
She could not recognize bandits
Or tell the kindness of familiar strangers...
So, thinking of her scarecrow,
She lied to every friendly face
In frightened self-defense.
"No motives can be trusted
In the mortal world," she thought.
"Not theirs or his or mine."
And caution swept away the last
Of Dorothy's magic,
Transfiguring her Ozmic wonderland
To bits of sticks and straw.
All she remembered after that
Was having dreamt of powerful winds.