It is coming, covering
What was open in the scene
The mysts, they envelope things
To uncover hidden themes
Withdrawn from view. Sit there you,
Remembering, under the
Moonbeam fading into dream,
A path that was not a way.
The mysts, this is what they say:

“Our Lethean mysteries,
Balm of leaden miseries,
Partake of them, if you please
for your swift ease.” (So they spake)

“But what are they?” you ask,
Mindfully, of adrift pasts
Remembering, wistfully,
Of the trysts that you have missed.
Days that should have spent in bliss
Covered now in shroud of myst.

And this is what they say, the mysts,
“Vapours in the atmosphere
Flares of heat from solar sphere
And icy chills down under:
Elements commingling,
Uncoupling and entwining,
We are what they kin, the birth
From dyads undulating

Maiden wraiths aethereal,
Mystresses of Boreal
Existing between the realms
Of the things real and unreal;
Descendants of a dewdrop
Conceived in a full moon night
Of Yes and No, long ago,
Presence now as fairy sprite.

Evanescence of essence
Fading and yet pervading
Seemingly vanishing, yet
Not not there. Lost silhouette.
Banishing the times too clear
In memory. Do you now see?
We can make it all unmissed,
Etch the mind oblivious
To its tale of past misses.
Whimsicality can entice—
Reality has its price.

That is why we come, when sun
And moon are neither either,
The fairies robed in aether,
Dubiously existing
In a liminal estate
On eve of hymenal wake.”
(So they spake.)

The land of mysts can be seen
In uncertain air of morning,
Can be heard from unspoken
Aria of yearning.
For when in the land of mysts,