In another corner of the continent
soul senses essence of wild blueberries
Westward exists a beautiful wine-press
where faithfully my tired feet must go
Deep forest hinders slightly moon-lit paths
but no obstacles blight love's persistence
There's an innocent ocean which churns soft
perhaps underground or in blue sky vast
An inlet to balance reality
which squeals some kind of foreign anarchy
I won't listen to the cold bitter brew
spoken by shadows of winter's false tongue
Nor will I give up until I am through
for I cherish heaven's spiral staircase
Which whispers of flowers ever in bloom
and fair willow on far opposite shore
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
well done
