Dream Weaver

1| That is What Men of Glory do

The Dream Weaver sings songs of godly men.

His songs travel across the seas and through the skies and below the dirt covered dens. Old and young dance like spirits gliding across still water to his words, spinning around and faster and around and faster and around and faster. Nobody stops.

Because to stop is to silence his words, and his words are what brings truth.

Godly men are the truth.

Dream Weaver doesn't lie.

He died young. He wanted it that way.

But he is older than the rocks and the suns and the mouthful of red liquid that burst forth from black mountains.

And he lives.

For his songs still ride the cracked roads of empty deserts and gluttony-sinned cities. They fill the open caskets that were once hearts of those who wake at night. Live at night. Love at night.

His songs pound the blood through the veins and widen the eyes of those who know. Know that the lives of godly men are just a mere grasp away. They reach dirty fingertips out and cry out for it. Most loose balance and fall, but some cling on and on and on. Desperately. To be a godly man is to be in the Dream Weaver's songs.

Love comes with the song.

Hate comes with the song.

But they are of the same coin and the coin doesn't matter. What matters is that the Dream Weaver shows acceptance to those who cross the tightrope across sharp needles and bottles that kiss wounds. His arms coil around the torn strings of abandoned puppets. His core numbs pain from the slaughtered innocence of used daughters. His words sooth anger which pours from the white knuckles of sons.

The Dream Weaver is the very manifestation of freedom and encasement. He sings his songs for his children, not of blood but of mind and heart and enragement and love. He knows that they need him as he needs them, so he spins his words to the whores and the bastards and the ill of mind.

Summer breezes gone and winters no longer white. This world he sleeps within has fallen, long before his songs became of truth and godly men. Fighters fight and fleers flee. The never ending cycle of survival pumps strong and few remain to dance to the words of truth and godly men.

Dream Weaver sings a new song. A war he sings upon the very abyss that feeds the destruction of man; a place that once stood above all others as a haven but now sits crumbled across dark depths and ugly things. He cries out for a revolution, one that has been delayed for many decades.

With hands laced in brown leather and body layered in a soft fabric suit, he calls out for his children. Rise against the oppressors. Bang down their doors and deliver the truth. Fight for freedom. Fight for love. Fight for glory.

Fight for the war that rages within the mind.

The Dream Weaver has sung his song.

And. We. Will. Answer.

That is what godly men do.

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