Pixie dust is spread and scattered,
falling down as rain, tickles pain to fade.
Forgetting for awhile, the world outside,
where a lost boy, can hide.
Soaked to the bone, the hurt is still there,
after all, magic is the illusion that comes with despair.
Mushrooms grow on a bed of moss,
picked and tossed, chewed to the memory of loss.
A journey through a deep dark forest, intrigues,
as wolves, goblins and witches appear.
A battle fought between good and evil,
to control the power of the holy cathedral.
Ruled under man since the beginning of his creation,
steeling the essence of gods foundation.
Denounced the right of Eden as was given,
by temptation, man stabbed the heart of the Holy Spirit.
Demons will rise from the dark, time and time,
this world will never heal, until the end of mans reign.
Only then, will the crow, crow to announce,
the beginning of a new domaine.