To stir and wind through threads of self worn bare,
the mists of enchantment rise from hallowed sigh,
rolling through the blinded stare,
and flowing to places deep inside,
where once within the newborn worm were plush with discovery and the name,
where now within an aging shell a plastic callous covers all,
and to but pierce this petrol encasement and dissolve away its shame,
the mist wraps itself around the hardened exterior and gives call,
to the great power masquerading as frailty hidden within its billowy opaqueness,
to the power of the name, of visage so endearing,
to hold steady the guiding motive and capture the unengaged senseless,
to burrow through the mind, make way, make clearing,

for the sights unseen appearing to open eye...

The mist burrows deep, deep indeed into my thickly cased head,
finding verily the base of attention so long left dormant,
fighting horrific battle with that horrible, filthy, vile tramp in his stead,
reigning triumphant, stealing key, return to me, regain the life I've spent,
but from what sigh did such mist arise?
the breath of the gods must breath through those passages,
surely not beget of mortal lies,
impossible from such tainted pool should come this, it's magic bereft of mages,
for where in this world to search would you find-
Beauty... atlas to the dichotomy of globes; the planet, and the world within.
-such a creature, so divine.