Tell a story about how she came to be.
An anxious industry needs some cheering up;
the star-maker machinery has come to a sputter.
She recalls a rainy night in June.
The forecast had been for clear skies,
and the middle of my head is playing
just like my nightmares look.
Loyalty extended so far
in the days before her unleashing.
Swift herself had picked them all summer,
had invited her most fervent followers
to her hotel room in London
to preview her forthcoming.
They liked to look back
with Polaroid-centric aesthetic.
The past – highlighted, underlined –
was enamored and protective
of years confessional and moving.
And on this final night,
the session had turned
less secret than others.
All the while, behind her,
the towers punctured
early-evening amber skies
and the lights atop the buildings
danced to the beat of release.
Earlier, on the ground,
no one could have understood what was going on.
They just gazed up at their queen
as she looked out over her new, vast kingdom,
jumped into its arms,
and gave them everything.
[NOTE: This found/blackout poem was crafted from a TIME article titled “Taylor Strikes a Chord,” as written by Jack Dickey about how pop’s savviest romantic conquered the music bus