Sheikha A. writes

Inertia

The woods tonight project a naughty tinge;

from its norm bushel brown, gleam a moon’s 

whitely tints; I hear the crickets sing a human

song: of quietude. On the wind’s enchanted 

wings, the pixies skip on sleepy firefly cribs;

the twigs have shed off of a wizard’s wand

spells of magic, harbingers of elusive bliss.

But in these sleep induced heathen dreams,

a blue light glints in low-rise whisperings;

gleaning all of universe’s silence, streams

of numbness flow through paralytic veins.

The pixies louden as their Danse expands,

into the brightly woods span Stygian hands.  

The Fairy Ring --  Alan Lee