In the heart of a twilight forest,
Where magic moonbeams weave
through ancient boughs!
An anthropomorphic creature,
resolute and slowly declined fate;
Carries a violin upon its spiral back.
The violin, a relic of forgotten tales,
Its strings spun from spider silk,
Sings secrets to the night—
a symphony of whispered leaves
and dew-kissed petals.
Fantastical flora unfurls
around our mollusk minstrel;
Luminescent mushrooms,
and their caps are aglow,
Paint constellations on the forest floor,
Guiding his deliberate journey.
Each step, a note; each pause, a rest,
As if it composes its own destiny.
The violin's scroll grazes fern fronds,
And the night listens,
rapt in somber anticipation!
Above, a flock of birds
winged a subtle stardust—
Weave a celestial path
across the indigo canvas.
Their flight, a choreography of longing,
Echoes the silent sweet melody.
And what does the poet play?
Perhaps the ballad of forgotten realms,
Or the lament of lost constellations.
The feeling is a resonant chamber,
which holds the untold secrets.
Suddenly, the forest leans in,
leaves cupping their ears,
As if yearning to decipher
the paid piper's song.
Is it a requiem for fallen stars,
Or an ode to the quiet courage of twilight?
The violin's bridge kisses the strings,
And the night exhales—
a sigh of unspoken wonder.
For in this whimsical forest,
where reality bends,
The poet was both musician and muse!
As the last note fades into the moss,
The moon nods, satisfied!
The melody of twilight lingers,
A luminescent thread woven into eternity!
A wonder of epic written within!
With💙
©chrysanthemum