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
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