The final gasp of fire against the lamp,
The rattle born of crimson filling lungs,
The closing pop of gasp from silent swamp,
The rumbling ice and shrieking crack deep dug.

The lamp's mascara—pretty eyes adorn,
And now another tree in marshland stands,
And somewhere gorgeous baby girl is born,
The ice cap nursing water slips to lands.

The first of sparks beginning forest flames,
The rains of spring lead river spewing flood,
And flames of forest flower cones of pines,
And silt to soil through spring cascade is wed.

Thus, elders to younglings anguish explain,
About the future born from ancient slain.

Like threading mountain path on moonless night,
Or swimming far from shore in harvest moon.
Like bargaining against the fairy might,
Or bray in hinterland at night alone.

Like morning dew licked from mountain pine,
Or running feet on sunny morning beach,
Like wintry nights with fur and sweet mulled wine,
Or snuggled sleep beyond the wakeful reach.

Like knowing death will come to claim loved ones,
Or watching broken dreams turn scrape and dust,
Like liquid joy in life of sandy dunes,
Or taking knife and leaving blood and rust.

And I pen words of peril, ease, and gloom,
So, I could experience them from my room.

The skies with tumbling light and stumbling stars,
Where the up tips right, and the left trips near,
Where down looms eastward, behind Everscars,
Dreamt cities hawk daydreams for shades to hear.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Where the molten tides kiss the gilded seas,
The earth heaves underneath the serene schemes,
Where the Wyrm Winds beam and Weeping Fires freeze,
And broken glades stitched back with moonlit seams.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Dread and despair from the First Child's nightmare,
Born from Night and Serpent, with Claws inflamed,
The Dream Dragon arose, firstborn and fair,
For his inky black Scales and dreamfire famed.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Six times six wings beat as Dream Dragon flies,
Shard of Night, glowing bright in Dreamfire's light,
Hunting the spirits, like a cat stalking mice,
Fugitives in Dreamlands, fleeing Death's sight.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

For a longer stay, buy the colour meals,
With coins of shooting stars, traded by all,
For World's colour, the setting silver steals,
Forget not or you won't yourself recall.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

In Forgotten Bay lies Dream Dragon's hoard,
Misting at touch, to sands that cost so high,
Unseen and Untold, treasures long ignored,
Trade memories for sand, for truths to buy.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Upon churning Lethe's bridge, a Sphinx reclines,
When all remaining paths are sealed and barred.
To her every reply, you must devise,
A riddle true—or be forever marred.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

The Golden Lean Cat is the first Muse Minx,
And third revered beneath Oberon's light,
It speaks in the Tongues which predate the Sphinx,
While guarding the hoard with its cryptic might.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

In Epic Seas, Echo Isle ever sails,
Where the terror tales and wars old are weighed.
Echoing clashing swords and waning wails,
For future children, ancient past sends aid.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Would you hide in the blue flame of sorrow,
Or hearth in the purple flame of glories,
The First one would freeze you by tomorrow,
While second scorch you in endless worries.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Always hide your true name among lies here.
Lest your mind slowly dulls, and magic fail,
For there is much of the Alfins to fear,
As you lose, they are remade whole and hale.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

When Oberon's eyes beneath shadows slipped,
As Black, Silver, and Gold in gloom have fall.
Steal not unless all three suns have eclipsed,
Or the bells will toll in the Wild Hunt's Hall.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

At dawn, plunge from Kragalith's tall embrace,
To Zephras Temple ere the wind arrives,
To find softest pillows of any place,
If your incense lingers in their cloud high.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

The Roc on boughs of Elder Razil stills,
City Reynor on its blessed leaves thrives.
They trade the true silver for the Roc's quills,
And diamonds for dew that dawn's light survives.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Pitter-patter, like laughter, falls the rain,
Are we praying for joy, with hearts in right?
Yet in this place here the mortal tears drain,
Are we cawing for ruin, with minds of spite?
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Insult not Orphan, nor claim them your kin,
For as Heroes or Kings they will rise.
As Villain or Martyr— in Tales not win,
Wed to Failure, you have sealed your demise.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

If you ever take to a Rival's din,
Never let the First Winner's game pause,
The Rule of Three is to Lose, Tie, then Win,
So remember, always take the First Loss.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Where dreams welded to stories, eons past,
And horrors melt to nightmares, ever scarred,
If you are in the Everscars, flee fast,
For nothing in here remains long unmarred.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Next comes the bird with thousand feathers bleached,
Each plume bearing a face, frozen in dread,
To guard your face from being slowly leached,
A face shut tight, is sole, safe way ahead.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Gather tales to enter, both said and read;
Each one a gem, stuck to gate in display.
Sing the Guide in joy, or dense words it'll wed,
Twisting itself to an obtuse array.
Remember, this is the land of dreams deep,
Know this land where the will of stories steep.

Do you discern the boot-prints in the sands,
Or castles constructed by ant-sized hands?
Are vermilion clouds from the sun's last ray,
Or crimson cotton from the dying day?

Are bent and broken stalks just trampled grass,
Or stooped elders waiting wisdom to pass?
Is the rustling just wind weaving through leaves,
Or unseen choirs crooning myriad hymns?

Are waves just battering the sandy shore,
Or armies, drawn by tales of monstrous lore?
Are those just flying dandelion seeds,
Or children fleeing to claim new house deeds?

Is lightning, just nature playing its part,
Or is it merely heaven's misfired dart?
Are missing parts just phases of the moon,
Or was it stolen by some thief in noon?

A voice like hundred whispers spoken loud,
In land of ****** snow as it was sown,
And drifting question it forever bound,
A yew tree seeking home in ice and stone.

In forest grown of golden solid woods,
The channels frozen under ice still hum,
With eerie wails that silence songs of birds,
Through ever present, ever crooning thrum.

The voice of forest cast as mighty tool,
The flowing channels, veins in ****** snow,
The wailing question spreading bitter yule,
The yew and stone in rooted steadfast vow.

Through autumn, ice or nature's anguished blow,
Forever glowing life will always flow.

I play in fields, those often forgotten,
Among blowing winds, from far begotten,
Dancing in wild daisies, as spring lingers,
Dueling shadows like swift gunslingers.

On the wind, I smell my mom's gingerbread,
And come racing home for a piece ahead,
Spice in her chiding, sugar in her voice,
Like her gingerbread, my favourite choice.

From the rooftop, I gaze at stars each night,
Listening to Dad's stories with eyes bright,
As he gently holds me in his hands rough,
Telling me those tales and making me tough.

And like passing clouds, those little days flew,
Reliving games, as woods from daisies grew,
Revisiting smells, from baked bread I buy,
Recalling tales, I gaze at the night sky.

I write to help me and myself, only
then I will have a little relief, when
It kills me to admit that I'm lonely.
That I am alone, even in heaven.

Where I have everything but people
I love, people who are everything.
My choices and their effect still ripple
This is the jail of my own reckoning

I want chance to relive my life again,
To walk the path that I did not take then,
To take the choice that will help me regain
Their trust, their faith, their love, their very pain

I will set everything right even
if I have to leave my hell and heaven.

A forlorn mule ambled a’ scowl,
Stumbling out from the hollow hovel,
But "Ahoy!" hailed a fey owl,
"Prithee, canst thou maketh the bestowal,
Of thine lovely bone-filled bowl."
Yet, all mule harked were perfide words foul,
So, the mule quoths with crimson howl -

"Hark me, O pirate of pain!
Me dubbed 'Common Mane',
Lo! tane my bowl-filled bane.
Wherefore art thou here, arcane?
Where goest thou, O wing’ d thane?
Whither rests thine dance so vain?
Dare ye cast the die of gain?
Doth not spake those perfide words again!"


The owl so spake in glace of Yule sire-
"Hight me - Lord Carrion the Dire,
A’ am piper o' myriad's pyre.
And A’ hie to mine Crooked Spire.
As it waxes evermore higher,
Only whilst rats leapeth in Surtr's fire
Betwixt tempest and thunder with sans a moment’s rire,
Of ruby tiefed, and bones crumbling in endless mire."

"Why art rats leapeth to Surtr’s spume,"
Whilst thy feathers tuck’ d ‘way from fiery doom?
Stop the endless Nyx brume”
The mule quivered, voice a-boom,
The owl spun words in return from estival loom-
“A’ piped them of phantom Phe’ nix’s plume,
So not wane mine ivory room,
Or stop their ambrosial crimson flume.”

The Mule’s sigh, hath even hell's hosts huddle around-
"Ye, sir! I wouldst trample aground!
And put thou in gaol underground"
"Ah!", came owl's soft rebound,
"Thou too shalt kiss skies abound,
Anon drink rills of scarlet profound,
For Bloom’s soft buss hath ne' er Fall’s fated song bound.
On pragmatism, only idealism's shroud surrounds "

Us, we free from sordid lays,
Shift foot wayed, the ambush laid,
In kernel’s sight, rain death raid,
The thunders sung, as days rung,
In storm swung, those corpses hung,
Ruby tiefed, in fire haze,
Red the ruin, red the rage.

The Choir of Judgement is out of sentiment,  
All lies that I told them were deftly sheared.
Underneath threefold stare of vivid Judgement  
The angels, burning yet cold, must be feared.

The Choir Contrition bleeds the blood of ice.
An angel feather owned by Contrition
Used like flensing knife to cut out all lies  
that I told my mirror in deception.

The Choir of Mercy is eternal pain.  
They use flames of worship to scorch my bone,    
So only spirit of the act remains.  
My mortal flaws keep me from going insane.

The Choir Redemption then considered me,
They sensed my anguish and set my soul free.

Blind and afraid, we step into the maze—
Walls of tall cornstalks and glowing pumpkin,
We walk right in the monster's sordid gaze,
A horror town luring us in through our kin.

We were blind to ignore its grim omen,
And now we pay by playing this cruel game,
No plot is untouched in this horror den;  
The town held hostage for an unknown aim.

We're ****** like dolls, like marionettes around.
Are we but actors in this dread story?
Again and again, for the next tale bound—
All of us live, if one hunts the quarry.

We'll survive this mockery of a tale;
Our goal is to game-master's plan derail!

Bazaar with many sounds and comely sight,
Where shops of spice and sweets pull crowds along,
While silk and muslin sold are soft and light.
Where jades and jasper bright on tarps belong!

The cocky kings with their coin purses jiggling,
The merchants seeking ways to coin relieve,
While nimble thieves with fingers lingering,
And beggars begging to next day survive.

Here, nights are hotter than days, if you know
the right ways; wares worth gold in hidden lanes.
The host like ants find ways through sand or snow,
Through great bazaar's knotted and busy veins.

There's nothing you won't find in great bazaar,
Its treasures draw great kings to ****** war.

The witch cabal recites in hollow cant;
Septet, under nine stars at witching hour,
Calling Outer Fey for wishes to grant,
Gather underneath the great clock tower!

Beneath centenarian trees, owls croon;
Lightning flashes within the gloom-filled cloud,
Under the warbling choir, the shadows swoon;
Squalls lash against land in symphony loud!

Their syllables they screech like scratching nails;
Capering flames sashay in phantom wind;
And the very world howls with piercing wails,
Rolling in colours to which eyes are blind!

They call forth the Name for blood sacrifice,
Hoping for the ritual to suffice!

Tide Tales

I sit at the sea in a tiny boat,
With a fishing rod and in my brown coat,
The tides' tussle hum like siren singers!
Fish-less, bait-less, while the winter lingers.

The seagulls watching from sky, chuckling-
While even sea foam giggles, bubbling,
Is the sea as green as my seasick face?
I check if my hands look cold blue, in case.

I would even welcome a shark right now,
Even pirates will get a hearty bow!
Yet all I get is the sea's salty spray,
Sea spitting raspberries, joining the fray.

Sighing, I start packing my fishing rod,
But, stop as it somehow catches a cod!
It thrashes in attack at rod half packed,
And under the waves my sole rod gets dragged.

"You think that would stop me!" I shake my fist,
"Oh! When will you learn?" the waves crash and twist.
Next day I return with a weighted net,
Bringing fishes back home, my goal is set.

From today's dark grey sky, the seagulls hide,
Minding it not, I throw the net star-side.
I see the rope-less net just as it falls,
Powerless, as the net sinks to sea halls.

I oar back home, having lost our wager,
By now plotting of new ways to badger.
Huffing, puffing, I heave the heavy oars,
To enjoy my rest ere oncoming wars.

A sudden tailwind pushes me shoreward,
And the helpful waves urge my oars onward.
I think I have won a new friend today—
Delight, like having an early birthday.

Now I know it is not kind nor unkind,
The sea's not to such mortal traps confined,
For such an ancient thing it's like a child,
Now and then serene, but oftentimes wild.

We continue for years thirty and one,
A score of wagers lost; a dozen won.
Until I am too frail to row again,
And so, on shore I feel my friend's tear stain.