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