Dark seer intones abyssal altar songs
with prostrate limbs across the floor,
and begs dry crumbs from bitter hands,
as locusts swarm outside the door.
Chanting mantras with a wordless mouth,
to breach the space behind the mind,
he culls the deep and draws the net
and brings to shore a conjured kind.
With applied hand of the mageís trade
and matching tempest voice within,
he arrays hounds of hell with fresh
sinew and bone and flesh and skin,
which he delicately writhes to plait
into a loverís knot of ebony shades.
Casting shadows like clouds on snow
he weaves a dream of dark brocades.