There survives an ancient tale of lore,
Telling the nightmares of past ages,
Of garish, gaunt faces that are born,
Baffling even the wisest of sages.
Midnight flowers continue to bloom,
Behind the mirage of normalcy,
But wolves that howl to the starlit moon,
Are rarely what they appear to be.
For beneath their haunted golden eyes,
Lies a human being all the same,
Corrupted by the ebbing tides,
Of Gaia’s enigmatic game.
If you pass the drooping willows,
And push back a myriad of leaves,
You’ll find a land of gushing pillows,
Full of fairies and festivals unseen.
They twinkle amidst their feasts of joy,
And prance throughout the greening sprouts,
Always searching for a novel ploy,
To blur the wanderer’s whereabouts.
Blood eyes glow between clouds of smoke,
Spurting mischief and eternal grief,
That disrupt the steady, old clock's stroke,
Revealing the blackness underneath.
But daybreak illuminates the shade,
And pierces through the shroud of mystery,
To serve the naked eyes as an aide,
Amidst the murkiness of history.
*AGWL entry for April; prompt: spirit animals
My Thoughts on the World and My Writing
The content of this journal can range from passing thoughts in the style of stream of conciousness to intense stories, poetries, and prose.