The Stag’s Descent

The moonlit kiss of a witches touch,
Is a wee bit, little bit much.
The stag watches over; eyes peeled.
Taking in the breath of Winter;
Her cold bite and callous fields,
Of pale white; from amber placed,
Herself in time and space.

Look around us!
We see not the tree of wisdom;
Nor any fountain of youth.
Our trust has been placed in a lie,
And our own reports sacrifice,
Everything we have worked for.

He shakes his hooves vigorously,
and presses the dirt beneath him.
A charge awaits us, sinisterly.
A tone of patriarchy blankets the land.
“This is our time,” he whispers,
“Our home.”
We must wait our turn to pass.

We have long awaited your return,
But did not expect you back so soon.
Why have you come?
Where have you been?
So many questions asked of time unseen.
Before me is time; not only a dream.

Wise words whistle, while we walk by.
Look down at our hands; look up to the sky.



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