Scribbles and Sonnets

There is an ancient memory in dreams
which Luna shuns herself for fear and hate
of what it says about the fevered state
of everypony's mind in which it gleams.
A twisting forest grown on moss and stone
forever free, yet bending at the might
of gnarled creatures raised in hissing flight,
calls out to those of us who long for home.

The forest has been cut and kept at bay,
but still the hissing grows beneath its roots
and waits for someone to show them the way
above to take the pony kingdom's fruits.
I've gone myself and seen the aspen tree
that hides the tunnel from my family.