Maeve: Poetry


She wanders there alone,
a peasant with tattered dreams
contemplating the microcosm of the Bog

The empty castle sighs,
its secrets submerged in stone
from a bygone era of lingering magick

The path towards it whispers,
hallowed ground grown wise with age
that teases the mind towards remembrance

All here,
greeting here with open arms and waiting
as she recalls the Queen she used to be. 


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