Meditative Words for the Soul

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.

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