The Mistwoods

On the borders of town

where only dead grass grows

where dark trees stand tall and strong as time goes

veiled in a dense gray fog instead of green leaves

there stood the Mistwoods

And deep in the Mistwoods, my brother and I used to play

And if you brave far enough some say that you may

come across the old fortress, stained deep with dismay

that is said to still haunt children and scare them away

What was this fortress? And what was it holding? 

And why was it moaning and groaning as if it were folding?

An old spirit still lives there

Go ask him, he knows

But you won’t find this Mist Walker

this fantastic Dream Stalker 

for no one leaves that old fortress, I should know

because my brother left, long before the first snow

So now I only get blurred glimpses 

of perhaps imagined miasmic emergences