In the lofty heights of Vashnar's domain,
Where blue dragons soared, and whispers reign,
A city of gossip, elections, and laws,
With citizens lost in bureaucratic cause.

Each day in the city, from dawn until night,
Papers piled high, an unyielding sight,
Forms to be filled and permits to gain,
Drowning the people in a sea of mundane.

One night in a chapel, under the moon's gleam,
A foreigner prayed, lost in a dream,
He uttered a plea, an incantation dire,
Unleashing a curse, a dark, hidden fire.

But whispers grew louder, a murmur of doom,
For the papers had magic, a latent gloom,
A curse lay dormant in the ink and the sheets,
Waiting for chaos, for rule-breaking feats.

The curse took form from the bureaucratic stream,
Papers rustled and stirred in a monstrous scheme,
They twisted and merged with a nightmarish will,
A sentient being, born from the quill.

It rose from the stacks, a towering beast,
With eyes of ink and a hunger increased,
It fed on more papers, devouring each form,
Growing in size through the Vashnarian norm.

The people, in awe, yet driven by rules,
Elected the monster, led by the fools,
A leader of paper, of bureaucracy born,
To navigate laws they had sworn to adorn.

But the monster grew larger, unwieldy and tall,
Top-heavy and teetering, bound for a fall,
More papers were added to its abominable frame,
Until one fateful day, it could not remain.

With a creak and a crash, the colossus did fall,
Crushing beneath it the citizens all,
The city of Vashnar, once lively and grand,
Lay flattened and silent, under paper's command.

Only the dimmest, with wit small and slight,
Praised the dead monster, lauding its might,
Saying "It was the best," blind to the cost,
They hailed the disaster, their wisdom long lost.

Now the blue dragon flies over a quiet scene,
Where the echoes of gossip no longer convene,
A tale of a city, of whispers and might,
Lost to the weight of bureaucratic blight.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Phaestian, in the year 950 AF.