[This page contains poems from the book The Crown of Glass. To read the full book, pre-order before August 15th. May contain spoilers.]

The Strangest Unknown
by Patrick Granger

I watched stars lose their fire as the night forgot how to end.
I saw mountains collapse as they whispered like long-lost friends.
The seas rose without warning, then vanished beneath the stones.
The trees spoke in a tongue only ghosts and the wind had known.

I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown.

The moon cracked in half as it drowned in the mirrored lake.
The birds sang in reverse as the dawn refused to wake.
The roads circled back to the places I’d never been.
My breath fogged on glass that reflected a face of sin.

I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown.

The books lost their words, and the maps all began to bleed.
The hours bent like light as they fed on forgotten need.
The sky stitched a veil out of silence and bitter snow.
And still I walked on through a world I no longer know.

I watched time fly by as I found myself stranded in the strangest unknown.

The Dunes Yawn
by Soren Wilder

I said yes before it asked.
Or maybe it never did
The silence said enough.
It knew me.
Split me.
Took what I hadn’t yet lost.

Sand in my mouth,
in my veins,
in the cracks where memory hides.

The sun won't set.
It hovers, mocking.
Like it forgot how to die.

I gave it everything.
It gave me nothing.
Or worse
a piece of forever
that won’t stop screaming.

My name?
Wrong now.
It echoes weird.
Like glass bending in heat.
Like laughter made of ash.

The dunes move.
Not wind.
Not weather.
They know.

They shift like breath.
Like thought.
Like guilt with a grin.

No water.
No way back.
The map burned a century ago.
So did the sky.
So did she.

My hands shake.
Or maybe it’s the world.
Or maybe nothing’s real now.

The thing, I won’t name it.
It’s watching.
Smiling wide where the air folds.

And I smile too.
Because that’s the joke.
That’s the twist.

I chose this.

Let the sand eat.
Let the dark wear my skin.
Let it all blur,
sink,
vanish.

This body’s not mine.
This ending?
Perfect.

But it’s not over yet
I move once more.
Isn’t it strange?

My bones reform.

My vision is back,
Thoughts are here.
Life is mere.

When did I get another chance?
Is this really a chance?

If she’s still out there,
Tell her I’m still here,
Alive and kicking

Or am I?

My Patrick,
by Helena Winscott
(Tattered) 

I’ll be away for a few days.
The house won’t miss me.
Neither should you. 

Don’t wait up.
Don’t call anyone.
The phone will not answer.
It’s been tired for some time. 

If the lights flicker,
it’s not me.
If the stars do,
it might be.
But don’t take that as a sign. 

The keys are in the drawer.
Don’t open the black box.
Don’t touch the mirror after sunset.
Especially if you see your own face. 

You always wanted to chase things.
I hope this isn’t one of them. 

Tell the radio to be quiet.
Tell the wind I was kind.
Tell yourself
whatever helps. 

But don’t look for me.
Not in the hills.
Not in the sky.
And absolutely not in your music. 

This was always
going to happen. 

— H.