Dreamweaver

Dipping his pen in the ink of endless

Perdition, watch the Dreamweaver spin an

Epical chronicle to be condemned

In penal bonfires, roused to strain and stretch

The Universal fabric. Notions of

Sacred ideas, pitch’d headfirst into

Pages doused in time and material,

Whetting the breeze, too great to discern in

Dark-sheeted nights. Gibbous tomes of woe

And worry, spun with seductive accounts

Of magic and glory. Dark and thick were

The stories he told, but he conducted the

Soft throats of his characters and in his

World, the blade could never strike the hero

Down.

  Never.

  The only thing which could

Stop phantasms from surviving, languid

In boredom and blindness, were his very

Own puppets, and sure enough, in time they

Grew not to fear Him, but more to over-

Come Him. Become Him. And then dethrone Him.

©Daegal