Pillage of the Night

This night fog makes dense
The impulse of the scent scattering –
The alleys finding the right imposter,
Who had shunned from beauty his core, his darkness.
Dead night has yawned his moonlight over the skies of decay.
Simplifying the need for the Scent to find,
Thieves of New Order.
Hidden has it all the parches of fantasies
Withheld from the pieces of the unmade streams;
Of the massacred Dreams.
Long gone is ‘The Revel’ from the Village of Dead dreams,
As unfinished is left the job by Maker of Dreams.
The thief roams unchecked yet bechested,

“I am the writer of all Dreams, the Fantasia;
Archived are now withheld Trance,
The Maker, the Specter to you now am I,
Agony of the nights would yawn to dreamless blight.”

Curved veins of seeping, transcendent cirrus,
Blank darkness is no better than creeping nostalgia of an unknown heart.