At the edge of enchantment,
a desert's cursive hand stretched forth,
and there, Morgana...fey... conveyed the hidden way,
as all the script of the ships, had come from Midralee, their grammery on display.
How came they low? How did they there, that day? So long ago, across the beam of Roswell come...where trap were laid?
The wheels rolled...and two worlds crashed in deaths embrace...so, time itself, afore it was...must likewise, rearrange...
and pardon weigh, a parlay played...a sorting of the living for the dead...for sake of 'castling's King',
this one time in the game...that magic square... the grid...of geniuses and lunatics...was made,
and no one on the board...save he...will know a thing, for time, amiss, must be repaid.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015
Art: Mirage, credit unknown
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