28 August 2012
Iris, dusk, and slight of hand, The Shadowmaster pulls the strings, The midnight weaver of the land, Who makes enigma jump through rings.
He fabricates the very night, And forms a puzzle with the mind, He draws the power from the light, And fuses it to craft his kind.
An artist, ink, instead of paint, An actor, curtains drape the stage, A crystal canvas, onyx taint, A craftsman, who grows naught with age.
A silver tongue and wizened face, The shadows hanging from a lace, When gone, he leaves without a trace, The puppet strings fall into place.
The Shadowmaster • Opuss № I