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Friday, June 29, 2012

Poem: The Fantasy of Argen

To the south there’s a place names Argen.
In its center there’s magic
That can make you young;
But the world’s tragic.

There’s 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 shall make you a slave
To the Pixies of the Dark.

A warning against the black 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 potions
In her lush dappled garden.
Crows are her servants,
The moon’s her warden.

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