no. there cannot be that hidden wood, where apple drips last wishes and sorrow.
would i but hold yet another word for your flight – edged with nettle and down.
dive deep my sweet, for your simple dreams, and rise you will. amongst the titans, hair a golden flourish, feet a gossamer blur, tell me. of what hides beneath bridges, what sacrifice lost in a pierced heart.
tell me. of what is the nature of whispering stars, which witch is right from afar.
let me know of the golden-winged lad, bearer of truth and fruit. then introduce me the silver-tongued maiden, singer of hope and faith.
MORGAN AWYONG 