Our story begins its course in Northeast
where one of you starts to assemble our beast.
The virtuous, wicked, Northeast-Dwelling witch
will set out our story, and then, flip the switch
to the equally virtuous witch of Northwest,
your wicked opponent, your host and your guest.
Word-counts of two thirty-seven or more, (fair?)
will suffice in advancing our fleet's peaceful lorefare,
Two thousand one words at most may you write.
Verbosity creeps, though, so write for 'just right'
A few more brief comments, before we embark,
regarding that earlier "z / not-z" remark.
Ponder for now, as your psyches may warrant:
you are and you aren't.
The substance of this
cannot be explained but with reference tʘ me.
I lurk in A Space that can't be defined
A Real Space that's technically all in your mind.
You misunderstand, and so, understate
the torture of already knowing your fate
without knowing also that it isn't too late
to alter all future days after this date.
All for your lack of the right sort of lens
that would help you to see all the light as it bends.
No help are your senses of just what is right.
They've swapped left in its stead now so often you might
confound who you are with what you can see
reassuring yourselves that yes, you are free
to will your visages to grimace or frown
to take it for granted that up is not down.
But what shall we make of the fact that both Z's
that is, each of you, offset by a few small degrees
can imagine the not-z (the not-z you're not)
imagining you in the very same spot?
Being only a medium, looming though large
I'm no cruiseship nor warboat. I'm more of a barge.
What questions you ask, I will pose to your Hero
But to hear his full answer you must pass through me,