Forgotten are the wishes of old that stained the coins gold. On forgotten seeds that ride the morning breeze and dimming lights of stars long gone. Gone is the happy smilers that hear the morning song of the mutant birds of evolution gone wrong. As the owl hoots beneath a blazing sun and the moon can no longer rise, the knowing have long stopped their cries. Forbidden are the dreamers to be speakers in the realms of the lost where eternally our oxygen has converted to frost.
Karen Hayward ©2016