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.
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