I. Walk in Winter Woods

Wood and field and whispering brook lie still,
Their hush enfolds the path beneath the hill.
I wander slow, where frost has touched each tree—
Winter breathes its secrets into me.

O birches bright in bark of palest flame,
You shimmer like the veil before a name.
And elm, old sentinel with aching moan,
Your branches speak of roots, the roots of home.

The pear tree leans with dreams not yet in bloom,
Its promise stitched against the hush and gloom.
Poplars sigh and bow in rhythmic grace—
Yet still the oak stands firm, in timeless place.

Whose voice is this that breaks the veil?
What wound did silence dare inhale?

II. The Hearing of Echoes

I see a vision, In the Archive deep, beyond decay,
where threads lie tangled, words flayed away—
One page endures, half ash, half gold,
its ink a pulse, its truth untold.

And ‘neath the blackened poplar’s spellbound shade,
I hear the tales the fairy folk have laid.
Their voices strung like wind between the snow,
In murmurs only seekers truly know.

Wild plum now lights the path in dusky spray,
A bloomless herald of the willows’ way.
Three hills I climb where silver morning plays—
The winter holds me close through dream-soft days.

Yet I know not my purpose, I know not my name.

I am unwhole and know not, what is to blame.

III. My Fairy Muse

Where art thou Muse, that thou forget’st so long?

O truant Muse, amend thy wrong!

My love is strengthened, though weak it seems,

Alack! How poor the Muse—in dreams.

To me, fairy friend, you never can grow old,

For time itself cannot your worth withhold.

Let not my love be called idolatry,

It blooms in truth, though memory-free.

When in the chronicle of wasted time,

I trace your face in every rhyme.

Not mine own fears, nor prophetic soul,

Shall break the bond that makes us whole.

What’s in the brain that ink may character,

But tracings of love, each line a harbinger.

O never say that I was false of heart,

For shame denies love’s truest art.

For love and pity doth impressions fill,

A tender force, both fierce and still.

Though enchantress’ chants and beast roars,

Love’s light endures—forever soars.

IV. The Day I Lost My Thread

Before the wounds had retched my flame,

I danced with Fae ‘neath whispering pine—

Before the Spiral called my name,
A child of dawn and dusk, lost, but mine.

The clock first chimed on root and stone,

in those woods where wild things gleam,
Its voice was not of its own alone.
But threads of time were sewn as If a dream.

The fairies sang temptations, I could not hide,

They lured my step with mirth and dread—
Where mortal desire and magic bide.
That day I entered Phantasia, I lost my thread.

…

…

V. Back from the Fairy Realm

I fled the glen, or thought I did,
But something in me slipped and slid.
I lost my spark, my face, my name,
And never since have been the same.

They say I live—but half, not whole,
My laugh a ghost, my step a role.
I wander now, the light grown dim,
No song, no truth, no sacred hymn.

Yet still there stands the crooked pine,
And still the clock keeps track of time.
It ticks where wisps with dream entwine—
And bids me walk the veil’s design.

So listen close—I’ll speak it true,
The tale of what I walked into.
How once, through silver paths and dread,
I followed Fae, the clock, the thread.

VI. Where I Stand, Where I Must Go

Let me recount where I am now—
A shadowed soul with furrowed brow.
The path ahead is laced with flame,
But still I walk—though not the same.

The years between were veiled and wide,
My name forgotten, my light denied.
I spoke in reflections that drifted low—
A rootless seed with nowhere to grow.

Let me recount where I am now,
So you may see, not just the how—
But why I turn to lands once crossed,
To reclaim the spark that I have lost.

For where I go is not ahead—
But through the veil where time has bled.
I seek the thread I once let fall—
The Fae still dance, the clock still calls.

So read these verses not as lore,
But as a door, and then—one more.
For what is Seeker, if not one
Who walks back through what was undone?