The Echoing Mists

The foggy woods,
The echoing mists,
A place where dreams,
Go to die,
And their spirits,
Raised again,
As the ghosts that haunt,
This place.
Now nothing more,
Then a song on the wind,
Or a poem on the lips,
Of an exhausted Poet,
Who will forget the words,
When morning light,
Chases the fog away.

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