To the Blooming and Brackish, and to Eleusis,

Flour and flower, sieves and urns
Silent rises towards one truth
Like open flames to sugar
leaves only burns

Leaves only burn
Hate only grows
Fate does not beckon
It only flows


To the Covert and Clinging, and to Hashan,

A weaver need not know the mysteries of sleep
A weaver need not know the histories of the sheep
The wearer need not know the weaver's name
So long as the dress fits finely upon the frame

Mannequins or real beings
Denizen or free
A slow decay or spring flings
A beneficent maybe


To the Hopeful and Heretical, and to Cyrene,

Things built to last must resist yet bend
The alleys of truth between Imperium and a shiv
The best of you outta be ashamed

Things last built are often first to mend
The follies of youth are easy to forgive
the rest of you should be ashamed


To the Dreamers and Mad Seers, and to Ashtan,

Worshipping eventual.
What even is a haiku?
A way to grasp now.

Formats break, shaping the new,
Even oblivion ends.
As it has before.


To The Stalwart and Stagnant, and to Mhaldor,

Paths to be followed, fatefully
When a sign would do
Pits to be filled, faithfully
When a shovel would do

Strong and supple, hot sweaty ash.
Maybe even the gods can grow, but I doubt it.
Bloody and virgin, always beneath the lash.
Maybe some things are truly unforgivable, but I doubt it.


To the Brilliant and Blinding, and to Targossas,

Fires are built upon burning wood
This is more obvious than it should be
The way into the light is not by torches
but by holding at bay the midnight sea


To Those Holding Titles, and to the Houses of Delos,

You are irrelevant without the cities.
Yet they are prisons without you.

Conditional freedom, that must mean something
Yet I fall short of rhymes and answers here
So I only have this question for you
What purpose do you serve?


To the Hands and Eyes, and to my fellow Rogues,

Flushed cheeks, rage or passion
Hearts full of fire, disdain or infatuation
Obsessions of flesh, passion or suffocation
Failures of breath, climax or just a finish

The rest of our story is for us to write
Alone.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Mayan, in the year 866 AF.