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that wild, wondrous magic.

that wild, wondrous magic.

i trespass into late hours listening for wings, waiting for something luminous to pierce the night she arrives draped in the last summer green, all gypsy magic with flowers in her hair she knows every secret the dark holds, and her eyes shimmer with the light of a...

hidden things.

everyone has secrets hers are buried in fields where buttercups weep because the sun hasn’t graced their faces in far too long everyone has stories hers bloom along the lonely river, beside the winding road, on a path of stardust lined in daisies and dandelions...