It lays down, weary and wanting,
Waking with a feeling to which it will be haunting,
Whispering what's in our heads incessantly in our steads,
Wandering back from the fantasy before it spreads, 

Whirling around the emotions before a word may fit,
It takes what it can spare from the passion to the pen,
Withering from worlds to watch the notions in motion,
It waits for the time to take in what it has woven,

Weaving the fragile and the bended stages,
It yearns for the deviation of what was in threaded cages,
To take its wages from those exposed, empty spaces,
And to speak of what is wasting in barren, broken places,

"Tell me something spared from paragraphs of pages,
Trickling down till it fills it's rain in lofty gages,
Tell me something heavy, weathered down by the ages,
Trampled by thoughts of the storm as it rages,"

"Tell me something bearing the battering's of blazes,
Tearing the wisps in the wind from all the treasured traces,
Tell me something wintry, weakened by sharp breezes,
Trembling from what we fear in frozen faces, "

"Talk to me not of the stitches in the shadows,
Those that will be mending with many tomorrows,
Talk to me not of the loveless spilled rose,
Those that the heart would sooner repose,"

"Talk to me not of crosswise honors,
Those that transverse across the other,
Talk to me not of what objects offer,
Those that we would knowingly conquer,"

"All these are left for another time,
For other redoubtable masters of rhythm & rhyme,
For those who know the trail to climb,
Though to which I ask of these in the meantime,"

These are what I would wander for,
These are what I hope is in store,
These are what I trek to find,
These are what the mind feverishly hides,

So safe wishes to those on one's own journey,
What is there is no fearful army,
Here is no place void of mercy,
And Lastly,
I promise you your story will be rather wordy,