Feeling the golden tendrils,

deep within what I carry.

Yet nighttime woes,

and eternal foes,

only make me wary.


Light quickens far inside,

with upside high as a mountain,

yet clipped wings,

and broken strings,

keep my lips from the fountain.


Once anointed some manner of king,

the preordained order of her world.

Yet each faded hit,

and the words they spit,

keep me in fetal curled.



Granted a shield that would not break,

the treasure lost during a past incursion.

Yet dropping our defenses,

and paying war time expenses,

Led me only to the Siren’s immersion.


Startled awake to the return of the arts,

Including some of it’s muses.

Yet hateful glances,

and missed chances,

still feeds the beast the poison it uses.



The real beckons with thoughts so sweet,

more potent fantasy then your dreams.

Yet all the lost ages,

and the torn out pages,

tells you fool’s gold is never as it seems.

Thomas Spychalski

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