Saturday, February 16, 2019

Sheikha A. writes


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 by Alan Lee
The Fairy Ring --  Alan Lee

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