Phantom insight, dormant magic, elucidate the sky. Inspire our velleity; breathe wing to the night, not once but twice. Usher in the hallowed month; whisper through the clouds to the makers and dreamers:
“Farewell to green, embrace the gilded silver trees.” Tug winters heart-sleeve lunarous cat. Sell us promises of grandeur. Cure our craft in your billowing tresses. Give insight, not second guesses.
There’s mischief to be had, sans fright; a scraping, scratching bite at the back of the soul. Yikes! Not a forthcoming twinkle. Idea, nary a sigh. Covenous, already pining I hear nothing cept’ crickets and the drollous autumn monsoon. Blind moon are you there or dead? Enchanted; lore says, or my steadfast imaginative dread?