There lies, in a forgotten corner
of a forsaken wood, a necklace
whispering with moon silver
and the mourning light.
The pendant shines of silk
and memory, brushed
by gentle hymns; wind,
and stars, soothing keys.
Passing canvas; shimmering
movements of the sky,
fluid, an elegant dance
crafted in secret.
“Those whom life does not cure death will. The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.”
This isn't very good. Too unclear and there are grammar/spelling issues (morning, not mourning).
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