Falling down.
Splash.
A deep sleep.

The light slinks its way down from the canapy,
Deflected by the leaves.
Never hitting the bottom,
Where the roots hit from the trees.


The musty moldy air is recycled up and down,
The aura of danger, truly is dumbfound.
The hint of mystery,
Within the bogs history,
Gives you a feeling thats unsound.

Unholy spirits dwell deep within,
Guarding the sacred land.
Sometimes they become smitten,
with one from their clan.

This one is of the bog,
An insider looking out, yet looking in.
Never without a clue but sure enough to nod,
Secretly planning for power to rob.
But before she can begin,
There was one sin,
And that was her own mortality.

A crushing blow.
Slow-motion.
end.

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Slyphian, in the year 120 MA.