If I tell you the truth,

Dorothy never found the yellow brick road.

Instead she found something blue and lost and long,

an ocean that stretches out endlessly.

There was no glimmer of gold leading to Oz,

only a sea of sadness that leaves her gasping for air.

 

And the Emerald City was less a city of wonder

and more a cage of sharp lines.

There was never a yellow brick road

to lead the way.

 

So Dorothy heads south.

No, she actually plummets and it’s hard to fight back.

It’s hard to fight back when you’re not lost

in a magical land.

It’s hard to fight back when the Wicked Witch

is sitting on your chest and

you couldn’t get out of bed even if you wanted to.

 

So Dorothy heads south.

And she claws her way out.

She doesn’t have a yellow brick road but she

finds a way.

She turns to stars in an unending darkness.

She learns to read the skies

that stretch outwards to infinities she

wants to live to see.

She looks to the moon and she sees

herself.

 

If I tell you the truth,

Dorothy never found the yellow brick road.

And the Wicked Witch

never dies.

But that’s okay.

From now on,

Dorothy carves her own path.