The Sorceresses of Sildia cackle in mania,
for the sun burns the flesh of evening’s cold upheaval,
the rank in file substitute for austere blankets ,
sheveled dogs of tongue-tied maidens of misfortune’s refuge.
Can the mine shaft drop to the inner core of self treason?
Fool the nieghbor’s cat from the tree. But know the hard ground’s musty
scent in downturn will only cushion the fall of the hopeless.
Till it is needed, none will prevail. So, I’m destitute in remorse for long trailers on paths in naked woods.
See through the forager’s crestfallen august. The abolished flee but the honorable stay to find. – Sinz