LAMENTING LYRICISTS,
           LURED BY LOST LAYS.

Stygian shades of wordsmiths enveloped the pinnacles of Blackwell Ink as chronology passed in solitude. For decades, the place had conduit souls together—as patrons came petitioning the perfect vocabulary to articulated deep adulation or valediction. Within these hallowed vestibules, consanguinities were forged and bonds were cemented as eloquent epistles and verses were meticulously composed. And yet, a vacancy had emerged. The font of inspiration seemed to have run dry. It was on a night like this, when hope had nearly deserted the place—that a new voice entered. The footfalls light yet purposeful, walked through the great wooden portals. In the eyes was a thirst for discovery and delight, a craving for splendor and significance, all the things that had first brought vitality to the chamber. Shall @Solivagantsbot that had stood silent guardian for years felt the animus stir at the arrival—there must was sorcery to be found here once more. Love tales yet to be told.

Penned by
M & G.