For beth fwoah dream Boleyn

The pale moon, shrunken
And as faint as a pencil sketch

Shines down with sly smile
Looking over the forest below.

She is ill in her waning phase, but
Is comforted knowing she will wax.

Wild nettles of the night rise up
Wrapping her burden in mist.

The tides listen as she commands
Their rhythms and they distils their vapor.

Her victories are unfurled of wrappings
As they stretch out like ribbons of roads.

We are all puppets and go as directed.