Dreamweaver

I set out on the path unmarked
By a deep desire bound
Longing for what wasn’t lost
But maybe never found
Once greeted into this world amiss
Deranged without a choice
Bereavement in lieu of bliss
pestilence, but no rejoice.

Over mountains brimmed with cold
By rivers stirred of gale
Under wretched sun I trod
Strode before the crescent pale
Sought the one to end it all
The dweller of the mythic slough
The tailor of felicity, not mar
To impart grace to this etched heart.

A myriad of stars grin above the sky
Earthen grove alight, beckons a lonesome cry
What goes now of the troubled one?
What must do this weary son?
Stillness in reply, only the nightjar shrieks in pry.

At last I met him in the chthonic spire
A voidness of thought and shade
Knelt and begged the ancient one
‘I know mortal of what you fathom
Yet what I can offer you is none
For mere slumber’s what I fashion
Now creep away and greet your days
You’ll find zest in what remains.

Harrowed by a voyage ended, it is time to rest a while
Dusk befalls and comes the journey last
What goes now of the troubled one?
What must do this weary son?
Stillness in reply, only the nightjar shrieks in pry.