Upon their quivering wings,* (Fairy-Land by Edgar Allen Poe)

*small hands grasping too big stems.

little laughter carried on the wind

to beckon you inside.

tall trees fall in, collapsing.

trapped underneath the layers of sea foam green.

breathing in sun dropped laughter,

blindly stumbling through a lilac haze of unsureness.

left to the elements

and lost to the darkness of day time.

jabs left and right prevent the chance,

of wandering in the right direction.

flashes of blue wings and lithe bodies

in front of you,

just out of reach.

and their laughter is drowning you,

slipping into a sleep of the undead but not quite living.

fighting the drowsiness with the only source of strength left,

golden sun slipping through the cracks.

surfacing from the depths of insanity,

their laughter tumbling from your lungs,

able to breath again.