by Nick Gisburne
She draws her dreams, delusions in the dust
But pious preachers sweep her sins away
Believers disregard her, with disgust
They see no sense in what her ciphers say
Her symbols bloom as flowers, twisted, strange
With tangled tendrils, half-unwritten runes
From dusk to dawn, a shifting, subtle change
To match, to mark, the motion of the moons
With reverence, an orphan wonders why
She prophesies what no one understands
In this, the moment given her to die
Her power passes into other hands
A boy becomes the messenger of dreams
He draws in dust, to pacify their screams
