No one believes anymore.
So soft and innocent against the dark.

Is there no atonement that can
be made for a poorly constructed dream?
The audience has left in mid act, with
distaste upon their lips. The tragedy
of the comedy not to their liking.

At the hall door; I beg.
I implore; They glance back with cold
silence, with an echo of regret.
But yet they turn their backs and
vanish one by one into the eve
and there is only the silence.

Once did the children implore me
to spin; but now they have grown
older and wiser and do not have time
for foolishness.

In it's very weaving; the enthusiasm
of a flawless tale, was only human.
Functioning perfectly at weaving
flaws. The whimsy turning in against
itself, crossed, crossed back again,
crossed and jumbled.

They do not believe anymore.
Legends; The poison has pricked
my veins.

Awake and shed this distraction. Life
is better suited for other activities.

Shed your dreams, sever them like the
sinews of a slaughtered animal.
Another day. Another death.
Divide them as a silken web if you
must, but do not forget to know them.

Behind every fable, every whimsy, every fiction
that is told in any hall in any age, there is
a truth. Something pure and
beautiful but still human.

But they do not believe anymore.
So grown. So painful the cost.