Sideboard


Maybeboard


Stay, traveler, and rest your weary bones,

The moss is softer here than palace stones.

You’ve wandered far beyond the mapped and known,

To find a table set for one, alone.

The kettle hums a low, deceptive song,

Of secrets kept where shadows stretch and long.

My tea is brewed from roots that fear the light,

And berries gathered in the dead of night.

You look at me with questions in your eyes,

Beneath this canopy of ancient sighs.

Do you seek fortune, fame, or merely rest?

Or are you drawn to what is unconfessed?

Take up the cup—the porcelain is thin,

As fragile as the skin that holds your sin.

I have a hundred secrets, dark and deep,

That even forest gods would fear to keep.

But sit a while, the steam begins to rise,

Don’t mind the shifting of the woods’ cold eyes.

Drink deep the brew, let all your senses fail,

And I shall tell you quite a wicked tale.

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