The Dream-Stealer

they call her kind, they call her bright a whisper soft, a spark of light but fairies lie, and mortals weep when stolen dreams no longer sleep she flits through keyholes, thin as mist with ice-cold breath and silver wrist her fingers pluck, her hands embrace the dreams that drift on moonlight’s lace a child who dreams of golden halls will wake to bare and empty walls a lover lost in passion’s heat will find their heart grown slow, discreet the painter wakes with trembling hands his colors drained like drying sands the singer coughs, her voice undone the poet stares—but finds no tongue she keeps them all in hollow glass a thousand dreams that none surpass some hum like wind, some scream like fate some claw the dark, but it’s too late for once they rest in faery hold no hands of man can break their cold a wish once lost is lost for good— she leaves them hollow, where they stood so bolt your doors, and bar them tight do not give welcome to the night for if she comes and takes your spark you’ll never wake beyond the dark