To the south there’s a place named Argen.
In its center there’s magic
That can make you young,
But the world’s tragic.
There’re haunted dangers everywhere.
Ghost princes whom themselves hang
At noon and midnight.
The flowers have fangs.
Past the mist of the mountain forests
There is a bridge without end,
On the dank lagoon
Of dreams that don’t mend.
You will come to a yellow clearing
Cut into birches and oaks.
You’ll see a castle,
But that’s a hoax.
Don’t listen to the Shadow Music;
It can break a diamond’s heart.
It will make you a slave
To the pixies of the dark.
A warning against Inkwood roses:
They have a beautiful smell.
They grow in the house
Of the youth named Belle.
She’s a daughter of an enchantress,
She carries a silver flute.
Belle has an owl
That has fatal hoots.
Poison Ivies are truly poisons
In her green dappled garden.
Crows are her servants,
The moon’s her warden.
YOU ARE READING
Someone Like Me {Poetry}
PoetryWith power there come words. And with words there comes music. And with music there comes joy. And that's why I write poetry.
