A/N: Because this is what happens when one takes in both Arkham Asylum and Disney's version of Alice at the same time. Rated for some mentions of blood, though the graphic novel it's based on is much worse, trust me. Poetry, especially fan poetry, is hardly my forte, so if you can give me back some constructive criticism, that'd be amazing. Thank you, and enjoy. :)
fantasyland
they find him where the man in green said he'd be,
where he said the questions would come to an end,
in an empty home that once knew how to be clean,
find him sipping at a cup in a wide circle of cards,
kings missing and queens' faces all scribbled out.
"too old, too brash, they know too much,"
he says, "with their flamingos and their
croquet and off with their heads,
oh no, madam, off with yours, no,
my dear madam, off with your head!"
the coroners turn up their noses and bury their
mouths behind white handkerchiefs, say the stains
are newly spilt, and they see a whole bucket of it,
a whole bucket of blood that once carried air and
food and life deep within someone else, a dead someone.
"paint, simply. we were just painting the roses,"
he says idly, offering a teapot to the frozen
company of gotham's bravest, rank poison buried
in the gaping spaces between his hookah teeth
and beetles nibbling on the soft corners of his hat.
in the corner a woman with the gotham
badge discovers a polite quiet tea-table,
get-up-in-the-morning glories in a vase,
and with the sugar and crumpets sitting
untouched, unneeded in the searchlights.
"we've already eaten, it's past teatime, you see.
yes you don't, no you do, you see," says the man.
"mary ann, mary ann, oh, where are you hiding?"
late, she's late for a very important date with
his lips silencing her and her eyes closed shut.
she finds falling stars and clear blue eyes,
she finds a broken neck and uneven hems,
she finds petticoats all stained with blood,
she finds ripped knees and torn ribbons,
finds what is left of once-upon-a-time mary ann.
once-upon-a-time mary ann with tea on her lips
and a chess piece in her broken little hand.
"she was supposed to be my white queen, mine.
she didn't want the crown, and she didn't want me
and so of course she simply could no longer do."
the confession of a sad little man who never
woke up from the golden afternoon, who
tried so hard to make the young last forever.
and oh, he would not could not would not could not
would not could not would not could not would not―
oh, could not join the dance.
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