Old, laid to rest

Call in my oneiromancer…

Talk me through the dreamspace, spiderweb dreamtime, time to cull the cull to cull the fictions, the knotted myriad mendacity, they follow the threads to the fruit to the poison inside.

Ravens nod. For once, the laughter stills..

I watch, bemused. Why am I laughing at this stage? The wasted


All that time, trapped within the dreaming, in love with a trickster quarter-century fool.

Takes one to know one, the ravens say.

Which must have been my failing — no taunter am I.


I am the fool. Always a fool.

In love with wolves, their blood-smeared mouths howling at the moon, the sun, hunger for me to acquiesce, surrender, give them their feast, but the cantrips spoke, galdr sang, the weaver untangles the lies.

How they howl!

I cover my ears at the din. Their ravenous, insatiable greed denied.

Dreamweaver’s blade catches the ghost. This time there will be blood. Heartblood. That black stuff of dreams.

twenty-six-twenty-six-twenty-six lyes.

The dreamworker turns, covered in viscera. There. It is done. That vampyr put to rest. Find other guides…

outpour the worms

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

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