I coerced my words from the dormant soul residing within me.

And through that lucid window, I could see a flame swaying about

the winds of inner desire,

whipping words and thoughts about

as seedlings amidst a gale.

Deeper still, a library

housing innumerous pages of black-ink forgery--

in itself, a forge where the words are weapons

these weapons tempered to cohesion,

as we acknowledge, now--

is all but empty.

Candles illuminate, and shadows fall gently on all faces,

but much to that effect,

I find the darkening appear

between my eyes

and the toiling flame.

I, the lucid dreamer,

the poet,

dreamt once and saw the author

through the window,

scrawiling in perishing light,

"I am the author

whose mind creates legends like these,

and forever more,

I shall pen even the smallest

iotas."

Whether by ink,

or lovelier ink made beautiful by the auditory sensation,

I, the lucid dreamer, the poet

the transcendental maestro,

write on.