It’s been two years since I first met You,
and one year since I wrote to You.
Oh, my, how You’ve made me grow.
The toughest year I’ve seen has passed.

I suffered for months and questioned a lot—
I knew You had a plan, but I must follow through.
On the darkest night I gathered the little I had
and drank Your unblessed blood as I wrote.

Unsure of what was said, I went to bed,
and in the morning I found written gold.
The words, though, were not my own—
even more unknown was the character transcribed.

The path was now set to leave the forest,
the same unruly garden Your last blessed poet
journeyed from successfully so many years ago,
with my own Beatrice as my glorious guide.

But my Beatrice has plans of her own,
as both a Muse and developmental instigator.
She holds my hand as we walk off cliffs
knowing full well that I cannot fly.

I tried to learn the follies of Lust
and alone its intricacies eluded me;
but she showed me in an instant  that what we want
can wait, the good-willed Lust, the puzzle piece, and missing link.

From here I can move on again, slowly recovering.
Each new dream sets the stage of life’s chapters,
to convey the ideas I want all to know,
and to remember the power one wields with a pen.