Take from the Crimson-hallow blue,

Take from the woodland wicket hatch,

And read from the Sonnet of Woeful Rue.

Read from the Statue Perdita, beckoned and scratch: 

Stoic and silent in the hazy lamplight marsh.

Twas twice forgotten, through whistle and storm

And the winds sweep through the wetlands surrounding – dry and harsh.

The menacing shadowed swamp and statue twirl into form.

Take from its solemn knowledge key,

Take from its direction, strengthened and ripe with wisdom.

Read from its library of insanity murk and travel from the weeping tree.

Read from its pensive eyes and reach for its unreachable kingdom.

Photo by Michaela Murphy on Unsplash