We are writers, born for weaving
Webs of hope and doom; deceiving.
Truth and lies, blended together,
Words with weight of rock and feather.
We are poets, born for rhyming,
Full of prose and tune and timing.
Mundane and special, mixed as one,
Tales of battles both lost and won.
We are humans, born to stumble,
To fall, to falter, to fumble.
Yet still we stand, although we fall,
Still we answer the rousing call.
We are Wunderkind, born to rule
As lord or lady, sage or fool.
Our realms we have, our realms we keep;
The realms we visit in our sleep.
We are too many things to name,
We wear too many masks of shame.
We hold too many broken ends,
But dearest we are; we are friends.
(This is for my friends.)