The King is Dead

In my left hand,
I hold the Lord of Dreams;
or rather, one aspect of him.
Black hair, pale skin, and his eyes...
(Everyone else in the family's
got proper eyes. Except Destiny.
Destiny is blind.)
His eyes are a gleam of light
in a deep black pit.
His dark clothes are amorphous,
(Amorphous? Morpheus...)
and they change
from long ceremonial robes
to a kimono edged with flame
to black jeans
and a black shirt.
Clothes are easy;
a nature grows too defined
to change with the times.
He found that out the hard way.
I close my left hand
on the Lord of Dreams;
or rather, on this aspect of him.
But in the same instant,
I open my right palm,
and there he is,
clothed in shifting white.
The child.
The lord.
Daniel.
Dream.
(The king is dead.
Long live the king...)