There is a place

Where moonbeams can be spun into silk
And shadows are as soft as velvet.

Where even time himself has paused to admire
The star-lanes embroidering the sky.

Where whispering ferns uncoil
To have their edges painted silver.

Where flora flirt, and you respond
With the faintest blush -
A playful petal on your cheek.

Where night-thinkers hum in an intertwining dissonance
Weaving a pleasant acoustic haze

Amidst a rhythm discernible to those
In Lunabrink.