Grim

One tree to the other whispers in hopes such gentle words are carried on the wind, a break in coming twilight now animals are asleep and the realm becomes theirs. For no immortal can hear such secrets of majesty wrapped in leaves and needles, nor can they realize fear in snapping twigs or smoke. “This land is ours” moans unnoticed by tinkling shamans rejoicing in sounds of crowns “nor birds to sing with us” for they are no more.

menoh

I am a button pusher. I stir up trouble. It is what I do. I live in the borders between light and dark. I can write about beautiful things, and joy and love, but I find I am more creative when i write about the dark. I love to hold a mirror up to the...

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