In the grip of structures beyond our ken
Like acolytes entombed in monastery walls
Panicked flies becalmed in amber
Passersby
Imprisoned by lies

In the songs of Sirens and the wails of banshees
In the hideous laughter of Goddesses
Shadows puppeteer their casters
Freedom weaves its silken fetters

I told you not to look to me for answers
To not come running here expecting consolation
As ensnared in you as you are trapped within me
Unravel clues until you're left with desolation

What's an ant to a boy
A boy to a man
A man to a king
And a king to a faceless Lord

What are smears of ink to this meandering quill
This whole hand aquiver though I will it still
What are thoughts to minds composed of repetition
I could scream them through you yet you wouldn't listen

Nothing gone
A dynasty of crayfish in a net
Nothing come
A dance in sand-cast bronze
Already cooled and set

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Scarlatan, in the year 964 AF.