luring morning in with goat's eyes
the early forest shivers
writhing light alive that I may witness its haunting
Feigning being born then dying
taking root somewhere deep inside
clinging to my forest as I awaken
to day or night I know not
Smudging muted colours,
the familiars of my borders for an age...
alone I am mesmerized
They call mist a ghost,
a fell omen
they call that mists kill yet I,
this moment, have become One with them.
its chipped mirror skies
black with unshine...
bloody smile whose beauty
would destroy the world
Without me snow would fail of drying
and fogs to gloat the sippid dark in ash...
can you still see them
as you blind to their pallour like a victim?
Can you imagine where the mountain falls
when turned upside down?"
They call me a ghost,
most evil of men
they call I will kill as I,
this moment, creep up behind them.
Step up, broken man, from stone
attempting claim on fate or fortune.
When beaten, fog returns to soul form
that the weak may think him welcome
but turn his head it knots a noose to hang him
or a spear to pulp his beating heart
or claws to dig from wrists his life
that my mists may, again, know reunion.