20 June 2012
A spiralling source of power, Sits atop a tower, Aglow with a magical aura, In the fields of Pandora.
Filled with strange men, Who never leave this den, Wearing dark robes, And holding weird globes.
They never seem to speak, Not a single squeak, Only point odd sticks, That perform odd tricks.
Levitating scrolls, Contacting dead souls, It's all so tragic, What an odd sort of magic.
The aura that is glowing, Showing no signs of slowing, Always has their attention, Gathered at a convention.
They surround it every night, And the aura grows so bright. Their arms raised high, Chanting the end is nigh.
Just what is going on, With these men so withdrawn, In this strange tower, Aglow with strange power.
Strange Magic • Opuss № I