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.