If I rolled the dice carved out of my weathered bone
And offered of my blood the libation to the fane
When even the reaper’s mockery forsakes me alone
My own clangorous thoughts are the last to remain

For the wanderer astray, the hermit seeking the lost books
To him the bitter path of knowledge is truly germane
And to gaze at the grand canvas of depravity, the deified crooks
All the depth of duplicity of the celestial rulers most profane.

Right and wrong matters little when survival matters most.

When his dead father touched his hand, Athson almost dropped the arrow.

When a mortal man breaks a people, it is always blamed on the gods.

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.