Forgotten fountain in the woods, strange and foreboding, Witness to unspeakable things. It flows with water poured from the pails of ancient, childish demigods Who act as rivals until the façade drops as one worries for the other, “Are you yourself, dearest menace?” And his companion answers—"I feel like myself, golden friend, rival and equal” Only to later glimpse the dark figment lurking about the corner, Reaching for buckets filled with the earthly waters of the world For sick, cult-like enjoyment.
He must be tangible, Yet maybe the bucket-entity is a false memory implanted by hungry spores, The remains of a plague hanging over these lands like a reaper While foxes sneak unsuspecting glances into the maw of starving blooms who cry, “I’m right behind you—do you hear me? Come to me. Sit upon an open throne labeled Reserved Seating For there is always room for one more in the banquet hall. Did nobody warn you Of the inviting, dark forces Growing from the soils of this broken server As yet-hatching atrocities and foreboding fountains, Crimson vines, and hellish nightmares?
Worry not. Worry not. You will forget your troubles soon enough. Come and join us in our banquet hall. Dance and pour the waters of stolen pails into the fountain. Make a wish, demons and demigods and foxes, And for the price of your free mind, it shall be yours.”