Buckwald

Not that much ever transpires in Buckwald,
Where beams of silver light dance through the leaves,
Those true few who find it are rarely called,
To dance with the essence of earth’s soft breeze.

When minds are closed this place is a forest,
But vicarious dreams bring on a land,
Explored through the one eye that is surest,
Here one may even escape fate’s cruel hand.

When the trees turn to towering mushrooms,
And the air is filled with the force of love,
Delusions call the gnomes from their rooms,
And their being takes your freed mind above.

So go, into the forests of the gnome,
And unleash yourself, to be rightly at home.