By:- Greg Richards

She ran, hair coursing, wind-borne, wild-eyed, wicker wielding,
Through the bough broken, twig torn, leaf wrenched,
Storm struck, Forests core.
In the roiling cauldron of her heart,
A thunderous vortex brewed,
Magic mimed the spell the words would not weave,
A chant to free her heart.
This knight in shining armour held it tight,
Faerie bane, in painful grip of Iron.

The copyrights on the article belong to the author. The responsibility for the opinions expressed in the article belongs exclusively to the author.


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