true morning: bodies of still and natural life bathed in a gentle glow of golden
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within reach to horizon each tree contributes a tune to the collective birdsong
gone are the cosmic sounds and reverberations of worlds beyond from the night after
each word in the spell: is a haunting that lingers in the space spoken gathering essence to power an apparatus of annihilation
not druids or sorcerers but a different kind of circle: smiths who harness the magic of the seasons to mend the realms in the aftermath of world-ending wars and infernal blight
and if dreams became currency wouldn’t the ones who live between stained pages be the wealthiest
spring after dark the smell of dreams burning from across the causeway
spring an atavistic thought: once upon a time we were gods of the unsettled lands
the day of reckoning and renaissance will come for storytellers when the last machine is buried under dirt
taxi ride: sometimes you pay for the stories and sometimes you pay for the silence
elancharan gunasekaran 