Prison of Air


In the Western Woodlands of Fir Mac Og
where the grass is gray as the thickest fog
and the trees get up and move around
and the birds, in their nests, ne’er make a sound
a maiden walks alone ‘midst the trees
with nightblack curls and pale bare feet
with lips that have never shown a smile
and eyes the shade of blue greek tile
she does not sing, or laugh or speak
she looks so bold, yet seems so meek
she lives within the woods of Fir Mac Og
a maiden trapped within the fog.


Revisiting the Seranish Chronicles:
The above poem is one from my book “Blood Feud” the first of a three-book set I have been working on. I have been working on characters and world development to try a weave a story both rich and also full of adventure and action. If you would like to see a rough draft and have a read over what I’m doing, Private Message me with your e-mail, and I’ll send you a section in PDF format. I encourage critique/criticism/feedback/comments. Believability, Clarity, and making the audience Care about the story and its characters are what I worry about the most. Please let me know if you’d like to read more and thanks for stopping by for a read!

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