My old lord returns, riding the winds of my lonely heart.
His name had something to do with scalding dessolation.
Empty morningtides, and frustrated nights.
Of little substance, but plenty of emotion.
Webs of deceit, threads of desperate terror.
Woven in the tapestry of my issolation.
Thin spindly legs of the master wrap around my throat.
But who is the craftsman of my bound perdition?
Is it the man in the still pond water casting pebbles?
Or something of a deeper mist, something foreign.
I wonder. Will I disappear in the emptiness of that gently creeping vapor?
Dragged lovingly into tender inundation.
To where will my restless soul vanish?
In fear eternal, lonliness infinite, or afflicted absolution?
