Quiver

When the traveler, weary and weeping with melody and malady, reaches the forest of unreason, will the wind grant him a deep green greeting? The pain of black or its lack? Will he be led to the hive where honey sleeps, quietly aglow? No one knows. I ask the question and quiver.

Mindglow

Writing poetry since 2002. Lover of art, music, design and books.

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