Reach me with your weapons—
the ones that crawl, that chain, that beckon
me to you, a force of dreams and starry sighs—
your thoughts the rarest, cloudy skies.
The scribbling inside your mind
enchants me. The kind where I find
the depths of our souls in sync,
no time nor nature can unlink.
Reach me with your munitions—
That ones that blind, that show apparitions
of atrocious paintings, the world behind your eyes.
From your plains of spring, to your lands of ice.
We are in luck, you and I, for we have found
what it is that cannot ever be bound.
A scriven parchment on the table, it may be,
once opened, a world of the unknown one can see.
We are in luck, you and I, for we are the same—
We befriend our fairies, our shadows get names.
Kindred spirits, yet blasphemous and wicked.
Us with pens, and the universe is unlimited.
