Midnight in the Forest

Shrivel of dust gathered like drunk men, 

Each movement, ginger, as if pulling silk, 

Between the board of looming limestone, 

Under the amber crescent’s light, 

Spin into a swirling, wondrous, shimmering sight. 

If time has fled, all habitats have, 

Started cowering under the majestic silver stones, 

For here come the turbulent waves:

The monarchs of the land of the wing’d

Beauty without parallel and the man of the trees. 

Picture Credit: DeviantArt by Bobgreyvenstein