Raven’s speak, breezes filled with flown gossip, ashen keep and night’s stone cold. Starlight to brigand’s prowl, mercilessly broken on the shady waves of ocean’s peak. Tide’s call upon formless feats dedicated to nothing but the motion and pull of distant moon’s. When is the season’s greet, drunken merry wonders displayed for delight and festered remembrance? Where do the team of horses tread, steady, not spook or spoken for but courted by intensity.

At behest of nightfall she sang deep and sweet of the morrow, and battle’s yet contested, until dreamer’s dealt with mishap in the requests they brought to midnight. Oh, slowly pray ask for things ill deserved and better left unspoken. As prayers drift into wonder and prisons freed become home to those yet filled with fear and reason. Challenging the stolen dawn as if some ghastly shade pranced holy into the heart of sun and moon seeking capture. Yet slippery lass eased past them leavening hands filled with air and misery as piper’s paid by quarry.

Crimson of ripened rose upon the pool of newly mastered. No purple to passion’s claimed, worthy of fallen days and night’s shattered by shrill blast thrice of horn in conquest fed. Willed to madness by the happy seeking flotsam who shall never entertain forgiveness. In pride and porous pregnant thought be bought by Braham’s and chalice free. To sing quartet as paddle wheel marches calling Saint Louis from the distance. The wishes and fishes of a briner’s bay born with the morn of warning coursing cross their taut white brow. As for then and now we have gone to better passing, seeking higher ground and the sounds of God’s whisper to the wanton.

Leaving lass with keen green satchel, cleaving to the nettle of a sprite’s lengthy mane. Auburn, not brazen red as child would have spoken but less orange then gold. With trepidation and pause seek those answers that shall not be remembered but change the world no less. From happenstance to chosen men have searched and been found unfinished by lesser word. Twisted tongue and youthful query as if in understanding the power lay. All too soon June turns November and the icicles that once fell free now cling to the chill of mind and heart. Into the keep we seek the warmth of whistling wood and good of fine words, song and the fellowship of Ages.