Morning, the luminous rays surmounted
by an immense mirror, swirling faces

in its gilded glass. We dream of those
known to us: Family, friends, enemies.

They are miasmic, a cloud of vexation
enveloping our minds like a sandstorm,

a fever induced by ten thousand motes
of uncertainty. What can be said?

Some sting as their dust strikes,
others waft past like ash, grazing

the surface of flesh like a first kiss,
the touch of a butterfly's wing,

not wholly unwelcome. The dawn
awakens us fully and their visages fade.

Only ghostly presences linger, shadowing
our movements, speckles of recognition:

Eidolon embraces, unseen but felt,
blanketing the day in ethereal silt.

As Lady Sol prepares for slumber,
Her brilliance banished once more,

a cloak of black feathers is drawn over us.
Such illumination behind closed eyes,

the understanding falling across
our faces, the Dream remembered.



Penned by my hand on the 18th of Miraman, in the year 456 AF.