The Village Where Mist Meets the River

I think I remember...

A place like this long ago,

Or perhaps, a place just born,

Where the mist meets the river,

There is a tiny village

Blanketed in the safety of a sacred cloud

On an island of quiet,

Minds rest in the kiss of her rain

The essence of her veil

Huddles over the den-dwellers

The leaves, weaving themselves with the fog,

Twinkle in the dawn

And settle in the safety of her silver threads

Traces of a footstep on the earth,

Feeling its moist and papery debris,

A stray soul from time to time finds themselves

Before the sun is to rise

At the entrance to it’s pass

The distant call of the village inhabitants

Beckoning the most placid of mind

And the strongest of will

Shall they walk the pass

With strong heart,

They too can feel the kiss of her rain

Walk in the soil of life

And hear the sweet strum of dew in the forest

However, be weary the soul

That cannot walk without fear

Finding themselves entranced

By the mirror of their wildest delusions

And murkiest dread

They awaken at moonrise,

Pass and mist afar off the shore

Unharmed, however...

...forever greatly changed.