Make haste, for the riders come;

Bearing spears and swords

And arrows and bows.

Bringing with them a trail

Of destruction, they attack

Our lands.

We are the warriors,

Fighting for our home.

Charging with our comrades

Into war,

Into death.

Now we are of the fae,

Sitting in our magickal glade,

Weaving spells of love.

We care for the world,

Watchers, all

Long forgotten.

All of us

Pale faces

Hazel hair

Green eyes

Then we are children,

Along the river.


Shouting with glee.

We're getting wet,

Pushing and shoving,

Tumbling and rolling.

Then we snap back to

The real world.

So harsh in its frankness,

So blind in its judgment.

Do they not see?

They don't.

They won't.

They can't see what we are;

What we are born as.



Of new worlds,

Of a new era.

They hail some,

They hate others.

The rest of us?
They're blind to us.

What are we,

Some of them ask.

What do we do?

How can we answer?
We are many things.

Dreamers, maybe.

Visionaries, even.

Warriors, perhaps.

Or maybe just...




Writers are what we are.

But then they say,

Why be a writer?
There's no money,

It's hard to get by.

And then we answer,

I like what I do.

I like the freedom.

There are no rules.

Oh, no, they tell us,

Work is productive;

It's slaving away at desks,

Nine to five,

Every single day.

I can't stand it!

They admire

Tolkein, Rowling,

Wilde and Twain.

They love

Harry, Frodo,

Dorian and Tom.

But what about us?

What about our characters?

They're as real to us

As any human on this earth.

What about our worlds?
We live in them,

Dream in them.

They don't care!
They hate us, yet

They can't live without us.

Who is it

Who let them fly away?

Who is it

Who let them go to places

They never dreamed of?

It is me.

It is you.

It is us.

They don't appreciate

They don't give a damn

They don't know.

What do they know, anyway?

So we disappear into our lands,

Becoming what we can never be;




Make haste, for us,

Riders of the Dreams,

We come!