Futures are so dear,
Dreams are what make them so well sought;
Who will fashion those selfsame
                                               dreams and thoughts
take those gossamer tendrils of thought
and make the unwoken
     slumber no more
                                 Waken the beast
His was done when the peals came off the Walls
Ere the sound stills
                             that cry resounds
gurgles to silence
silences so golden He raises His eyes and Smote the crall
Dead in its tracks
Riven behemoths of fashioned hands
clay paramours who left her bereft
     he would not He knows not how
His heart strokes slowly
and then those lines rise to His hands
and that gurgle ends in a whimper

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