D U N G E O N M A S T E R (Poem)

More about D U N G E O N M A S T E R (Poem)

The Dungeon Master (Echoes of the 1980s)

He comes in mist when danger nears,
A crimson cloak, a steady gaze;
A guide through doubts, through hopes, through fears,
In worlds where childhood dares were raised.

With bow, with staff, with shield and spell,
They run where shadows twist and crawl;
Yet when the path descends to hell,
His riddles rise—soft-spoken, small.

“To move ahead, you must stand still,
To win this fight, refuse to fight.
I break no bones, yet bend your will—
Tell me my name, or lose the light.”

The children pause, their courage thin,
For strength alone will never do;
The answer waits not in the din,
But in the heart that still feels true.

Again he speaks, when hope runs dry:
“I am the key you cannot hold,
A door that opens when you try
To trust, not see, nor buy with gold.”

He never stays to claim their praise,
Nor walks beside them to the end;
He teaches, then dissolves in haze,
A watcher more than mortal friend.

For every test was meant to show
Not how to fight, but how to choose;
That growing up means letting go
Of easy paths we wish to use.

When portals close and Earth appears,
And magic fades to memory’s seam,
His voice remains across the years—
A riddle woven into dream.

The brilliance of the 1980s Dungeon Master lies in his restraint: he was not there to solve problems, but to prepare children—both characters and viewers—for a world where answers are earned, not given.