The maker of mist
Is a creature of trysts
Who weaves a weave of subtle grace,
Absorbing up the scenery,
Gently, seducing you into languid, complacency,
Then, playing on your naiveté;
He veils your eyes, with tendrils of lies
Neither swiftly nor hastily:
He works with deceptive efficiency- adding ever more layers of embroidery;
To confuse and perplex you;
To mar, embroil and entangle,
Cast wide, this net of muted, opaque colours…
This invitation to wonder ensconced within a trap most delicately set, yet deliciously foul;
A camouflaged contraption to ensnare your soul-
Trapped like a fawn caught in brambles, nettled and bleeding, waiting to die…
For the creator doth delight in your fright and the dangers it blights:
For the killer in earnest is you, out of fear and terror, the twin disguisers of the truth.
Your soul to keep; your body, for the reaper and the vultures to take,
Animosity this creates; for the boatman’s toll remains unpaid
A collector of precious souls- not trinkets, sapphire nor gold
Imagine the alchemy! The intricate sorcery!
To what end? Or, design? They do whisper, speculate and antagonise
I know not, nor do you; for deaths guise left on a lost soul, is the only remaining clue.