As the imps do play in the dazzling lights, the swans preen and pine
In the shadow of amnesia. A new reality awakens within,
And upon its dawn there is naught but a woven world mirrored in night.
Shedding pretensions, their wings are gone with the sun.

Newly-made eyes open to darkness, and revel in freedom from light,
Only to realize once again that night is but a dull reflection of day.
And cry she does, to the heavens above, that she has so recently left;
She begs for the gods to let her peer out the window at truth.

Foundlings lament beneath their shrouds
For the Givers they never knew.
Shouts of terror, gone unheard, loud
And bright in the fright of selected few.

Shadows cast beneath sunlight's flags
Are trademarked captions made of stained silk.
They trod the daylit bog in dusty rags,
Secretly living, they and their ilk.

The portrait wavers in the haze
Of motes and orbs scattered in the air.
Lonesome flickers moan and raze
The wall around its deathbed lair.

Candles stare into the wrecked abyss,
Watching whilst colours leech and shade.
The picture of life shrouded by the mist
Listens to Death's quiet lies and charades.

Afficionados and Artists mourn alike,
Though unsure if here truth lies pure.
Morning comes as a decisive strike;
Revealed, the deed is done.

Under velvet veils lay cords pulled taut,
Snapping, lashing at wrist and shin, prostrated on fallow ground.
Wings are clip'd and hooves are lamed, struggling leads to naught.
Within a cage, singing in rage, whilst spectators clap'd along.
Giggles, laughter, at they who chafe: the Bound.

In flinty eyes rest shattered dreams,
Their jagged edges goudge at heaven's seams,
While whispers speak silently in riddles.
Oh!, cries the crow as night kindles
The fodder of midnight's hearth.

Waterfalls cascade, proud in their glory, trampling those below.
Rainbows ephemeral in the evanescent spray, sparkle with false light.
Those below claw at their shine, attack those they would be.
On cliff's peak, the river stares down the barrel of the drudge's gun.

The Angel swoops on wings of sin,
His smile lies reassurance.
We dance to ballads in minor keys,
His feathers drift to cover the truth.


I shut my eyes whilst my Angel led,
Shuffled unwilling to music sour, never sweet.
The chords struck as hammers on glass,
And my blood seeped clear from the rends.


The Angel's wings, of Anansi's own silk,
Sealed me in his words macabre.
Our sonatas play unceasing;
Now I answer only to Lucifer's call.