Fantasy

The witching hour drawing near
Recalls those secret thoughts
Of truth and lie and love and lust
And friendship, time, and dreams:
The first so veiled to shield the self
(And others too) from pain;
The next to fill the gaping void
With joyless, weak facade;
The third, of course, a wretched brew
Of hope and fear combined;
The fourth, its twin begot' of thirst
To fill, again, a void;
The next will sprout to bloom and shine
With bond greater than blood;
But next the sixth at it erodes
And threatens bitterness;
The last is where each of these stem
And whence they meet anew.

So midnight brings a life to these,
And, shattered, puts it back.