Fading

I see doe feet

Under the lacy hem of the mist

But I trip over birch roots

In search of the deer.

 

There is a lion

Mottled like the silver trees

Standing guard at the grove

Where the stags and fairies dance

But I lose my compass

In a sudden marsh

And feed my dream to the

Lion’s growl.

 

Photo by Pixel2013 on Pixabay

 

 

Written in response to Free Verse Revolution’s second

May writing prompt, phantom.