In the shadows cast by stones in moonlight.

Still nighttime air,
Whisps of clouds
Haunt a languid moon,
Drifting.

The great silence
reaches out into darkness,

Conjuring from the human mind
Myth and faerae
Casting them
To subsist in shadow.

Vessels for
Our nostalgia,
Our fears,
Our hopes,
Our dreams.

But if somethings are born
Of mind,
Of passion,
Of thought,
Does that make them any less real?
Does that make them Any less true?

Should we raise them up,
To become things that they,
Were never meant to be?
Or as things that never were?
Or as things that never could be?

In futile hope
that
somehow
we con bestow substsnce

To our own minds.

In the shadows
Cast by stones
In Moonlight.

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