In distant dreams I see the gambit,
the Logos' last laugh is locked.
A precious silvered tidbit,
a hand to which chaos flocked.

Its sole guard is oblivion,
the dusty recollection of past.
Waiting for one with gumption,
to take and caper at last.

The prowler in moonlight,
Will unbar the open door.
Guided by the jester wright,
unto wine-dark seafloor.

The stoic hides their smile
'neath the ringman's brim.
He will fool all the while,
with the tale spun by him.

Drowning in the subtext,
the riddle kings will ponder.
But the gauntlet chooses next,
They whose whims are fonder.

Censured is the caestus,
in line to make its punch.
But the plan will end hiatus,
on the trickster's clinch.



Penned by my hand on the 14th of Valnuary, in the year 793 AF.