When my pen hangs over the paper, just before
I set about to write, but haven’t quite
decided yet, there’s a flash in my mind of a
thousand possibilities - all the things that
I’ve so long dreamed of writing, and more;
while empty, wordless day
follows empty, wordless day,
all the things I fear will always be an
echo in my mind
resound.

Of maidens pure, opening the door to find their
****** ‘trothed come home
to kneel at her feet
and die.
For he fought well, and nobly held the foe at
bay, and came to tell the
tale in his own blood.

Of men wandering from themselves, broken
and restless souls unhinged from any tie of
hearth and sudden infants’ squall,
or love that lasts past morning.

Of hidden forest rivers fit to burst from
aelven-home, and carry all the sweetness
of that place to mortal ears, and eyes, and nose.

Of mysteries so deep they span the starry sky
at night, looking down upon the speck of one
night-eyed man, and knowing him alone
of all his fellows.

Of birds that whisper from a golden god above,
of dragons dark and slumbering, with scales of
ore and gold.

Of a crystal statue chiseled, by a blind and
tender hand, in the shape of hidden beauty,
then revealed through all the land.

Of a toddler and a giant, of a flower
barely bloomed, of a man, and of a woman,
of the beauty of a tune.

Dreams, all dreams. Things that haven’t
yet come true. Not until I write them,
or I die before they’re through.

Just before ink meets page, this cacophony of
images resounds, and almost as if frightened,
I pull back.
All of it. I want to write all of it. I want to
lay it all down on paper. But it takes so
blasted long, just to make sure each word
comes out right, and to do it all -
all at once - is too much for any pen.
I fly too high; sometimes I forget how to
spell; how does one write the entire
dictionary of the human soul in just
a story?