Due to FictionPress's terrible preservation of formatting, it is impossible to present this text on this medium in its original form. Visit ?boardMiscellaneous&actiondisplay&thread1160198216 or my Xanga (entry date 10/7/06) to see this text as it is intended to be viewed.

To the Artist

I've always wondered how the pen could forge such wondrous dreams;
How ink could blot on pages blind the visions of the focused mind
And show nor what should seem.
And even as I wonder so,
My eyes turn to the hand which governs all the page may see;
A careful strand to weave a land to bear what soon shall be.
'Tis cautious, careful, rightly so; it bears a burden wondrous low,
Yet still with skill it weaves the will of HER.
And to and fro
Across the page, the pen scrawls hues and shapes and forms and lines:
A walrus and a carpenter, a tree, a ship, a lime,
A jabberwock, a snake, a shrew, a forest, and a dime,
A moon, a sun, a day begun, a policeman and a crime,
And thrice a million other things both peaceful and sublime.
When all is done, HER will has spun of late an unknown time,
For THIS the world has known it not.
Or THIS the world has it forgot,
Or either way, for either cause, they look upon HER world in awe
And can't recant just why they shan't make real that dreamer's dream.
"For life," she says, "is always just as it should plainly seem,
"And dreams have neither place nor time within the general realm of thine."
She blesses unawares her tool the pen.
And so do I.

10/7/06