A miserable tune should be locked away from the night.
Into the cacophony of trees it leads. Morpheus's forest.
"Babylon", the road that feet fall into beaten footprints,
lined with a choir of golden weeping willows.
Mourning on their bowed boughs; tear drop petals, falling all.
Forget-me-nots, blue as sky, pass into the Forgotten.
A dark recess where perfect twines with never.
The resting place of the woods, as the Dawn Chorus trumpets.