A poem inspired by The Muse of Cold Earth.
Moss and Stone
Hold me close and don’t let
Go
The race rages on, nightmare steeds
Trailing dark flames whispers hissing into the pool of thought
Dream, corruptible, stews like witches brew
If you nourish the wrong parts the form will grow
Distorted, ogreish, rough and mangled
The true sleep brings a Wake to all
And what rugged dream may climb forth from the womb of the world?
A true, final self, end of math.
I’m waiting for moss to gather before I reach
The peak.
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