Times they roll and seasons they spin, only for the land to go begging once more. the final piece of the puzzle is found, his work once more shall be done at the close of midnight. he will have what he seeks, almost a century since the last feast. flying in the ether are scurrying sounds, they harness their luck on moonlit gowns. an exchange shall be made, upon the celestial shade, a magic so deep it can no longer be made.
By Sam Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 