I have become lost in a vision that was once never mine to have; a thought unseen, as in a dream that was never shared. But I was there because I dared. Or so I dared to believe, and thus was left to bereave, in whole, for the death of my hopeful, emptying soul. Yet the pen well knows these secrets which flow through my hands. As blood from fingertips pours black unto the inked page of the history we write for ourselves, left dusty and forgotten, on forgotten shelves, and in forgotten times. Such was the blindness of my eyes as I ran through thickets of whispers, unafraid, I the unshackled slave who stayed; biding my time, binding in rhyme, my poisonous thoughts. For what have I left, save for portentous doubts; that once shouted, fall upon deaf ears? Fears dripping from muted lips, flowing through clenched teeth, hand in hand with the silent promises never made. A foundation of jade that supports the sky, for there were no walls built in the becoming of I.