In the valley,
chainsaws roar like banshees lacerated by laryngitis.
“You’re going the wrong way,”
say mist shrouded cliff faces
painted red and black with torn corpses.
Landslide scarred trails
as coiled as suspension springs
guard windswept summits.
Nine inch thorns lurk in wheel ruts.
Weary travelers ascend on foot.
Before a hearth as old as mastery of fire
they mistake mischievous fungus
for a familiar delicacy.
Ceilings become floors
and the walls gateways to sensations
more familiar to bat scorpions
politely sipping the blood of platypus platoons.
The weary wanderers see the universe
through the eyes of supernovae,
and goblins on toad back
in the marshes of Merble.
In this enchanted hovel,
the five senses are merely the opening line
of an epic.