Lagoon.

i should go on down the dales
to the palace of rhiannon
by the caers, those misty isles
you see, as though at sea.

a place of memory, the sidhi,
under the silver moon's
starry wheel of heaven.
a myriad jewel, a peacock's fan,

a tiara on a diadem arisen
in the slivered shimmering night.
but here at the lagoon
are peril, dread & doom.

a frond as perfect than the abysm,
waters colder, darker than the light,
where not even the moon appears
to shift its depths wherein sky shivers.

embraced in a silver circle alone,
an oracle more brittle than bone
or wind lashed skin naked drawn,
all who enter here none return.
Gift of Tongues