C.A.S.E.Y.

The dawdling love-struck waif imagines

a dancing Faerie, as white as fresh cut trees,

melodic as the stars piping the cosmos' tunes

across the empty galaxy and planets made of cheese.

She wanders the forest that nobody knows,

where nobody knows these lips — as pink

as slaughtered innards of the hunted boar —

match the quick star-bound flicker of a midnight wink.

She wanders the forest that nobody knows,

where nobody knows the hair — as brown

as the unborn ploughed and fertile soil —

with all its burdens buried and all its goodness found.

She wanders the forest that nobody knows,

nobody except the love-struck waif, doomed

to know that he shares the wilderness

with the night's stars hanging above the wandrin' muse.