A half-lit realm, where whispers fast swell,
The gossamer shimmers with faded, blue light.
Half truths and myths contrast and compel,
and giant, bald babies eat all that’s in sight.
The black forest spells a lore misconstrued;
its every sharp leaf stripping flesh from the bone.
In this grey world, sick spring waters spew
a foul flood of miasma no mortal can hold.

Yet seekers still saunter, bumbling and blind,
drawn by silent knowing calling them fast,
despite every glade threatening to muddle the mind,
despite all roads leading to a rational wrath.
Here in sweet Mystery’s arms, balanced on a line
between that which is known and what must be divine.