I wondered what I might give for something
someone else dreams of at night; I’d rather know
what makes them think that way and not read
about the dark forces they believed to be real

There is a calm about the flour that covered the
baker; he is a man who has a craft, and whatever
he believes is in his hands; no matter if the story
was written last night or five hundred years ago

He is a part of the walls we pass each day; we
summon a smile for the moments he provides,
but he is the life, the life I want to know because
he does not wear a cape or walk with head bowed

Whatever they summon is made of candles, delusion
and the heart of a mushroom; what we read
comes alive in our minds because  the book is faded;
yet another language can seem just as mysterious

I wonder if worry drove them to this madness; I feel
the power that uncertainty  has in my life; it controls
the grandeur of my dreams for they are attached to the
solutions conspired against by my own weaknesses

But who can reshape the future yet live in poverty and
anonymity; it is the patron who believes in an idea
that can change the world; or maybe they just steal
the idea and pay someone else to write the myth

Would it make a difference if I could called it quicksilver
or mercury; probably not if we were dancing or if you
were crying; none of it mattered to them because what
their graves reveal is that we still don’t know how the feel

Nobody expects anything more than their own gifts can
deliver; the only one that matters is that it matters that
much; everything else is for an observer of life who wonders
why he is so ordinary and sunlight beneath the sea is not