Move on past the Black Horse, take the steps 
reeling right and left up the green shoulder.
You're in the woods best called "the real world".
Magical of course. Moss-carpeted trees
hollowed to join anon their blown over brethren,
upon whose crazy crumbled limbs you ramble.

In fact this green land that dips and swells
is but sleeping giants and dragons and God knows what.
Progress across dreaming skulls
lay your head upon the verdant breast
appraising your desires.
Then pursue your chosen way
in the buoyed stride of a determined soul.

It is exactly how I love it to be.
If I were a bird of the highest leaves I'd swoop closer 
repeating evergreen lyrics, as well as a chirp could do.
And laid against silence, the chirp at least, 
clear as a bell will be heard I'm sure.
Pause on its purport; wonder over all of this.