The call to Weaver, woven long in song,
As eerie whispers creep across the vast,
Like Winter seeping into spine—so wrong—
To call our death as sure as summer past.
Like dying gasps of fire against the lamp,
The rattle born as crimson floods lungs,
Like final gasp that pops from silent swamp,
The rumbling ice, its crack a shrieking song.
Their names and deeds are deep in legend’s keep.,
They bear so many legendary names,
The many deeds, that take away the sleep
And each of Them a terror, dread, and shame.
The Ante-chambered Edge, the Cradled Cusp,
The Twisting Tide, the Daylight Eater, Night,
The Messenger, Collector, Dancing Gasp,
The Peeler, Seeker, Singer, Mangled Sight.
No ears have heard the Weaver’s breathless laugh,
Their shadow felt across no skin or wall,
Their writhing sigh to blow away the chaff,
A bursting heart that tastes like Weaver’s hall.
Like fickle mountain path on moonless night,
Or swimming far from shore in harvest moon.
Like walking tightened rope without a sight,
Or wail through nights in hinterlands alone.
Across unbound, who creep like spider crawls,
Across the seconds, seeing all who stroll.
The Weaver hides in graven nightmares thick—
So thick to steal your breath, a gasp, a time.
As seconds tick They savor fear you reek;
Despair and death entwined within the chime.
As heavens pale to opal's dim repose
A leering eye on back from corner wall,
A drop slipping across the skin as noose,
But deep within, the creeping insects roll.
On pallid peaks, across the burning pyre,
Where earthen wounds let fires to flow and bleed,
In middle, winds about the ocean sire,
The water's oath to flame and ice, in pleads.
The furrow carved on ground and torn across,
Where tranquil river flows so named as Oath,
As clear as silent death, as emptied dross,
Here, order tends to burning solstice wroth.
Where banners mark the truce of blaze and ice,
Beyond the grasp of summer's peak, or frost,
Where Weaver's ledger old are kept in thrice,
To even out the debts of sunlight lost.
Like seven sins, the seven monks then split
From order, wielding river Oath betrayed,
From Oath's own bed they scooped the mud and slit
To build a tomb like Weaver's shackled shade.
On winter’s longest night beneath the moon,
When Weaver comes to play—and seeks the hide.
As seven, River Oath forsook and strayed,
A tomb thus built, and shadow ruby dyed.
The craft of mud and silt, a fortress-tomb,
To hold the Unraveler, tight like drum,
While basted shut in salt, and blood from womb,
Thus wrath and curse of hundred weeping mums
So held by hymns to wind and blood and stone
And bone; the wind to test their honor far,
The bone and blood to sins by pain atone,
And stone to bind them all till end of war.
At winter solstice night, beneath the moon,
The ether trembles, writhing up the fate,
But Weaver loves the Oath's unbroken tune,
The tomb, the fortress—none can bar its gate.
The monks thus understood their folly vast,
No hope to beat the horror monks unmasked
No man or beast had seen the Weaver's cast,
For none do leave the Weaver's sight once asked.
On summer solstice, debt in day repaid,
Then Weaver sings—and steals away the sick.
As seven monks from bone their flesh have shed,
The tomb is melted into mists They lick.
A shriek. A gasp. A cry; no silent death,
The flower; hall; in horror all abreath.
Like blooming lotus They unravel flesh,
The bones then meld in facsimile of tomb,
Their final breath to wrought a squall and clash,
To screaming cries of wights in terror sob.
So, quickly run and run afar and wide,
Amuse the Weaver, make Them laugh aloud,
For when They catch you, end has come aslide,
The gaze then falls on seven sons of blood
The Weaver likes the children youngest most,
To seek the hide is gleeful so much more,
Like parchment thin, in ancient annals lost,
For shrill their screams that never cease to bore.
So, children, call for Weaver not in jest,
For They may stir beneath your bed from rest.
