Perfection is a dream
Without an end.
It yearns for naught but the
Stars to bleed their
Light to his Moon, it mourns
Its own despair—
He speaks of the Starvation
of the Arts.
In tongues they speak to him,
In dark they laugh,
Followed by dancing flames
In growing fear.
Run not at their coming,
For winter’s nigh.
A laugh is not a laugh
But a romance…
Carry your own worries
In a sword with
Growing stems of laughter
And dreams of day.
No one will come for you
As this night dawns.
Forever they will seek
Your own end.
