Blue Fairy Wren

The rush, the push and fuss

Brindabellas ancient and old

Long stories they tell and have told

Crush, crush the leaves of late summer fuss

Dry mould, blue fairy Wren, oh gush!

Comfort speaks of me and my red cloak

Under those hills she sometimes yerns

When she’s angry, they burn

I can find her then, just like the Wren.

Will she be ready to join me? Travelling this mortal place?

Not till the oceans boil, and the dark wolf throws his muzzle and gapes

It’s taken all I’ve lost and all I’ve earned to find peace in those words

In the meantime, perhaps I will spend some time

As a blue fairy wren

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I, Mage. (1)

Limited absolutely. If I had a great dream, it wasn’t this.

The first symbol of Art, the hue that sits of the runes.

  
Ha, runes. They are ruining my concentration of late. Bundled in binds. 

I wild the power of the ancient worlds, every decision I make, a spokesman of the currently aggrieved. The faint of heart. The scared of mosters.

Limited, though. Each decision a tree in a branch of the year. The future and the past mushed like a madness. 

I don’t know what, I imagined life as a wizard would be like. Oceans seek me, mountains speak to me, trees ruffle the way the koi tickle their roots. I’m watching these clouds and am beginning to think they want to talk to me too. 

  

Significant halo, insightful tangle

Looking about face

The soup of her favorite song in the air

She takes her halo off

Polishing it for the first time

Covered in crystal hatreds

The mess these mortals make

Chords of their lives weaved in knots 

They scissor hands and scissor deaths

Looking at this moment, at her own thoughts

Knitting, striving, fated black ropes

Destiny, in these times

It took so long for her to be aware of this 

A warm feeling of the subdued grey lingers

Non one calls her by her name 

They have a word for her, and her 

Woefully worshipping, in the hope

Silently despairs, in the hate

Significantl tangles, a messy weave 

She’s not the only one who weaves

They do, themselves make it, their are others too

Like, above and, ever pressent 

Immortals is the wrong word

They are: Longen. 

Moon staring at a stormcloud

Sitting in her steller mezanine, grey and high, gentle whispers of tears came from Moon

Tendrils of light reflected in the teardrop pool forking its way through the dust near her feet

Stormcloud gathers his strength, at a odd loss to know the ways of the hearts of the Longen

They live so long, see so much. He thought as he edged his way towards Moon. He knew he had but hours to live. It made his tummy rumble and he remembered his own brief youths. Every day he died. Every day he was born. Grew old. Grew up. 

Till he dies just before Sun, his mother gives birth to him again. One of many sons and dughters of the Longen.

Would he ever reach Moon? 

Every day he tried and every night he failed. These gentle wispy tears falling. Falling. 

Stormcloud would never know why.