The tales grow brittle,
left untold,
The incantations, dry.
The knight, the dragon,
and the maid forgotten,
left to die.
The warrior and the quarry
cease their endless chasing game,
and all the wild in all the world
is culled, and dulled, and tame.
The story-laden stars go dark.
The magic creatures cry.
The lantern flowers give no light,
and fae no longer fly.
Beware the rift of magic
separated from the earth.
No hero comes to save the day.
There is no death or birth.
The stories lay forgotten now
on dusty, splintered shelves.
Thus we abandon to the void
the better of ourselves.
BlackQuill 