a skein of knot

i told a story once, of my magic uncle, but in the telling of the fascine fable the grounds loosed and nimbusly-adrift we found our station. uncles like that should warn you that, in the telling of their tales, you may find yourself stitched in the clouds.

and not too many people find it so easily recieved, their being amidst the virga at sefen tousand feets.

apostrophe

the princess once asked the carapaced doter proof of his once claimed prizes and curse. so for 26 nights of the tree he sheltered by, built the antler-gires by claw and clamour.

the princess enabled, she hesitated to touch the present statements that once caused such dire outcomes. but her love for the crab gave wisdom and trust to her senses.

and the sincerity of her touch befuddled the stars' malicious alignments, forever gifting them with the grace of wish and dandle upon those below.

the knower

shadowed. a slight lisp of patience.

but gifting, spoiling- a job worth waiting for... in the bureau, in the behind.

protecting of the sensitive elements destroyed by common momentum. attention lacking, gaps filled; but not too much. or maybe so.

at a time when his charges are bewildered by their own floods, minds aswirl, intensely saturate wonder and amazement... he must not over do what he is meant to do. he cannot.

lost in a never-ended fringe of bittersweet segment, he stirs the air of discovery and imagination for all his charges. he is not discriminate. but he cannot accommodate more than he is allowed. he would like to. he would like to stir the air wildly to create whirlpools that catch the depths of all understanding. but he cannot.
few find his air. and slowly. and one-by-one. and heartbreakingly so. and with his position firmly anchored. he watches the many and all that leave his influence. most with no taking gift, and others few with frail remnants.