Do not disturb my circles

Nothing comes from nothing, And so Prometheus toiled: I must change your life.

Step closer into the funhouse mirror,

brown-eyed terror.

Bulging green veins on hands thrice your size;

They hold a (misery) cord,

Winding, weaving, twisting.

It is the witching hour.

Step closer.

There sits your mother–

lost and found like echoes in Time.

Look closer, doe-eyed monsters,

Pulsing lives fly high on sugar kites.

I stole one, ate it up.

Screams swallowed by the starless sky.

Nothing comes from nothing,

And so Prometheus toiled:

I must change your life.

With fire, foreknowledge, and fennel-

Blood and clay spun into Man.

And so, these hands weave and twist

Spun-sugar lives,

Fire glinting off teeth, eyes, mirrors

Till I spit out this congealed sweet mess,

And call it Life.

Reader, I made you up.

Are you alright, are you?