A broken down myth collecting dust
Paints a winter landscape to a fine degree,
A spring under the mountain
Where she lounges when the nights are cold
Her favorite of the King's soldiers isn't far
He is tending the bonfire in the distance
The warm candle-like light sends shimmers
Skittering over the ripples of skin and water
When he raises his head and sees her
He will come to be at her side
She will make a good bride
When he notices
But like all myths, a subtle variable of reality
Is erased or obscured in intricate puzzles
Of peripheral sights, inaudible sounds and vaporous touches
She must admit he may not come
He may not even exist
Perhaps she is a phantom in his mind
And he knows only a ghost basks in the spring
The flesh-born elude the dream-bound
The true essence of their lives
Woven together with their deeds
Shaped with insecurities and failures
Thus are they held apart by simple uncertainty