does he wish for the darknessor does he wish for the stars or does he wish for the whole world black? does he want to take the light in our eyes or let the nothingness reign?
No, my child, his want is not for that. He envies pride, he envies sense, But his need is not for these. He wishes for truth, wishes for innocence, Wishes to be carried from pain. He-then does he carry the wishes or make them come true or does he look at them and smile? does he wish and dream and want and hope for the truth his eyes keep hid?
No, my child, he does none of this. He grants the wishes, but knows it not; He gives his soul to all who care. It leaks through fingers, onto script of lead, And turns it into gold. His-then is he a creature of art or some spectral being or is he something more? or is he like the breeze to us just a man of simple love?
Yes, my child, he is nothing but that. A man with heart of glass, Locked up with chains of steel, Filled with the words of the ages, The song of the innocence, The poetry of the wish. Long black hair covers the torment of years.
With just some small struggle, All can see through his binds. See into the wonder beyond. But none can touch his innermost self. He is the Night Wisher.
By Tyrone Phillips