An open letter and poem in one,
I'd like to sort some confusion -
The characature Lord Thoth has become
in profusion - out of confusion, delusion or
perhaps some manic hiccough of the Sapient minds
has led to the illusion that Lord Thoth is a sobre,
sedate, uninebriated end-all to the party.

I once met with Him, by mistake more than design.
For some reason, the Divine had deigned to ditch
His cloud (or dingy crypt, if you must have it so)
and had his speech interrupted by some wayward tarot.
It was not unnatural for my good self to pass by Crossroads
and fling a card or two in Jest without a glance,
and by chance there was a meeting there -
A whip curled out and yanked me in -
whether this was the work of some spectre or
trouble maker is anyone's guess. A peasant's grin enhanced
this latter notion. But I digress.

The Lord Thoth I remember was not disheveled
or shrivelled, nor matched with scythe or chain,
instead, he handed me a shovel,
when I put my hoof in mouth again
and proclaimed I was digging my own grave.
I must admit, that shovel I have still,
a solid testimony to Lord Thoth's good will.
That I settled that day with a grave, not a crater -
That was the nearest I ever dined with Death,
without sharing my dessert with Lady Maya.


-H.C. Beya Storm.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Glacian, in the year 569 AF.