You are lost in it,
meandering to and fro.

Bogs, quicksand, dark woods
and sweeping storms rage
as you huddle in a hole
in a hollowed out stone hill.

Yet you travel on, for the storms
always settle for just a slice of time,
just a slice,
same as the monsters which stop in their
roaming, if only a bit.

Enchantments abound,
seemingly fair of nature,
always to turn to a curse
soon revealed,
as the invisible ropes
binding you deep on a pedestal
force a lucid sleep,
of nightmares you cannot place.

Knuckles bloodied
against a stone wall which
will never fall.

I punch.

See? Nary a chip.

So I climb…

Breath spent in exhaling
as lungs heave
with exertion
at muscles spent,
screaming with fatigue.

I find you sleeping.
Fitfully.

A beautiful wretch of a woman
The only kind I would
ever seek.

A Prince of Fools I may be
perhaps, but still a
knowing knight am I in the end,
for only a violent kiss
will bring you back to
life.

Not one of wishes
and hopes and dreams
or even love,
but one of a passion
to rival a thousand
wants and deeds.

And as I look to you
I am full of
violence
this day.