Beyond the mountain's curvature
The wisps of fog tempt like lures.
Wafting through as tendrils frail
They obscure the broken trail.
Restless trees observe the scene,
Their branches waving in the breeze
While finches flit beyond the veil
Of swirling mist and haunting tales.
Crumbling stones tumble down
The splintered heights of the soaring crown
Which mounts upon the apogee,
The ancient heir of royalty.
August, 2006 by Glen Alan Woods
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