Silken brume breaks into stone walls,
a castle rising behind mist,
and all outward advances halt
in the morass the fog has kissed.
Wizards weave white whispers wound tight,
and deign to dream the world in blue,
cast upon the winds words shy,
silent to all who would see them true.
Petrichor crushes the magic
and dispels the incantations;
fleet flee the magi frantic
and weep for their keep’s bifurcation.
A Story, A Symphony 