A waterfall of silver hair, I swept it back, she is not there; Her brow aglow like running honey and breathing gold, smooth as softening hills of snow; She is not there, I lie alone; Deep behind her widening eyes, dark as mirror-world skies, through sharpened doors and arcs of light, where hiding beasts groan and wail, I run possessed and blind, into the chamber of the Night; There are no yawning stars to guide my way, no outstretched arms to envelope and lead, but vapor chill upon my skin, I march and pray; these forest children are all hidden, all the worlds joy's they lie forbidden, great gravity's black hanging tresses, pressing heavy birthing panic, each tendriled claw grasping each longing breath; She is not here, this land is death; a torn dress of black flowers, wilt and lie scattered to the silent wind, the rush of airs, the faery rings collapse above and whisper into Earths ear, the black shifting innards of the kingdom of the Djinn; She is not here, she cannot sing. In the cavern of the Night queen, behind her helmet of hair, behind the silver waterfall, as it hangs then falls upon the alabaster stair, an echo, an ember, drawing towards her cistern, a Seer... look deep within my prince, lay your blue lights upon my Surface, drink from my lips and fulfill your purpose. The world is a place soon forgotten. Your kingdom lies within, beyond the realms of death and sin. It is a place for the woe begotten.