by Nick Gisburne
They know, the Fey, exactly what to do
To spawn the crude creations of their kind.
The flaw they found was ever, only, you.
They twist their tiny fingers in your mind.
The visions, nightmares, these were always there,
Forever out of focus, indistinct.
They pick and pull them, twists of tangled hair,
Unravelled, brushed and braided, looped and linked.
A silver ghost, a summoning of smoke,
A crooked incarnation of your fears,
Disturbing dreams you stirred but never woke,
Approaches, as your courage disappears.
The Fey can find the shade in any soul,
And yours is now a creature they control.
