The Blackened Poplar
Beneath the moon, when the silence grows,
There stands a tree no wild bird chose.
Its bark is charred, its roots sunk deep
In soil where no bright flowers sleep.
Its leaves, they shiver though no breeze sighs,
Each one a whisper, each one a lie.
For here the fae of shadow tread—
The ones the sun forgot or fled.
They call it Poplar—black and bold,
A tree where pacts and secrets hold
A fae that once wept her name,
Now Unseelie kin do much the same.
It marks a gate, though none walk through
It’s feed by thoughts still shaped with rue.
The bark is etched in runes long dead,
The moss beneath is stained with red.
The fae that dwelt within it’s core,
was she by lover lost, or something more?
She sang of stars, of trust betrayed,
Of mortals led and then dismayed.
The blackened wood is not just blight—
It’s vow and wrath and stolen light.
A place where changelings cast their cries,
Where promises go when someone lies.
And should you sleep beneath its limbs,
You’ll dream of bone, of mirrors dim.
It whispers truths in silver breath—
Of bargains sealed, of beauty’s death.
So leave no thread, no coin, no prayer,
Upon its roots laid soft and bare.
For Fae remember. Fae reclaim.
A blackened poplar will take your name.
WoPoLi 
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