He was a trilogy master
Leaving out the brisk bite of winter chill
Extremes to an extend
Always turning back again towards the light
Engaged in graphic silence
He toiled
Ink stained fingertips acrid as he bit their half moon edges
Dragons and fire burn across the pages
Blank ones waiting their turn to soak up his imagery
Sand dunes sweep across his vision
Night landscapes forever shadowed in darkness
Howeling mountains inundated with sharp-toothed beasts
His pen swirls with magic and mist
At once a slave and master to his words
This is his world
One of falling asleep on half-written sentences
Waking up from vivid dreams to create again
*This is his world