With one mead too many, I meander through the mint paths, amid the breasts of mauve mountains, lit only by the midnight moulten moon and the melon-drop eyes of crag-clinging mountain goats.
I go searching for waltzing merrybegots within the mirrors of my mincing mind. The echoes of my mindless youth dissipating in maudlin maiden memories, just as moonlit moths before a melting flame.
I am futilely seeking those muted and milky Avalonic mists, garbed only in a mantle of mystical moonbeams. I am moved by the mellifluous musings of a myriad of mirlos, those ebony Spanish blackbirds of lemony nebs and mercury eyes. The mewling moanings of morning mistrals mingle with the melodies of ranting ravens, that mingling meeting of black-winged mandolins, melding jet night with musical morn and yet these melancholic mists are not mine to claim, so I shall continue on my meandering wanderings, seeking those mists that hold my name.