Harvesting fear

Gleaning the ashes of sub-consciousness

Feeding our creative systems

Devour the dreams

Deliver the power

The power to make something from nothing

Starving creators

Hasten their fates with fear

Fear, their sustenance

Their subsisting panacea

But I glean the harvest

I create the worlds

Scythe so sharp

Sharp like the sight

I serve the panacea

To the crippled people

Begging for their survival

Only the survivors

Will have their tales told