Every year the autumn whisper

whistles over hills and vales,

bringing word of fairy dances

and the fair folk lore and tales.

Never resting, pixie feet will dance until the dawn,

rhythmic stepping, twirling, prancing ever on and on.

“Invite the mortals,” they all jeer

but never make it past a sneer.

You’re the first invited in

and never will you leave again.

Accept your fate. Accept your lot.

You’ll keep dancing til you rot.

Poetry

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *