All a fury, the green
wilderness buzzed with hurried friction.
Bloody streams, their power
expressed alongside grinding gears of clockwork,
present a weary scepter
in a long-forgotten dream.

How disjointed, this dream
did form- The lines of red reacting sourly with green.
Taken in hand is thy volunteer scepter,
and between the two: a silent friction.
Insects return to their feverish clockwork
as the sky bends and mutes its power.

Glowing figures transmit unseen power
in a marshland where unencumbered dwarves dream
of distant clockwork
that is hidden by vibrant green
pastures devoid of friction.
Approaching with corrupted vision is the scepter.

Stabbing into softened earth, the scepter
dispenses it's selfish power,
and causes among the soil's inhabitants a friction
which disrupts their wistful dreams.
The glowing figures are driven from the land of green,
and the pastures are consumed by hungry clockwork.

Refugee skeletons descend into waters that are foreign to crushing clockwork
and beyond the reach of the scepter.
Streaks of green
and vengeful titans attempt to dilute the waves' power.
Monstrous clouds shatter like glass and threaten to split open the dream
while the air turns electric with villainous friction.

Marching for salvation despite the friction,
those determined souls escape the clockwork
and flee their world which is merely one's dream.
Returning to it's weary state, the scepter
relinquishes it's power
as the vision concludes with red once more consuming green.