Listen for the rustle; was it a bear in the forest?

Or it could have simply been the air in the forest

 

Lay down your burdens.

Let everything lay bare in the forest.

 

Whisper to me, love, and to no one else

Let no one hear your prayer in the forest.

 

“Sometimes, the King is a woman”

A woman with shining gold hair in the forest.

 

See the nymphs play! Watch them run!

Running without a care in the forest.

 

Go no further - listen, you fool!

Do you not hear that blare in the forest?

 

And the blood ran red through the trees

Worse than those four mares in the forest.

 

There, in the dark, lay a ring

Where Queen Mab makes her chair in the forest.

 

Tread with soft and velvet steps

His Grace alone keeps you, heir, in the forest.


Amanda Amos is a young writer who desperately wishes to not starve upon graduation. An adamant short story writer, she's been peer pressured into giving poetry one last chance to make it work before she retires into the seclusion of character arcs forever. As a writer of short stories, however, she has always been quite prolific within modern fantasy and magical realism, having sold out from the idealistic high fantasy of her youth. Life comes at you fast.

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