The Maker of Mist

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 death’s guise left on a lost soul, is the only remaining clue.

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