I am From…

Where I'm from…
I'm from the garden of Twilight,
I'm from the moonlit stars in the shade of the sky
I'm from the world that isn't a world
I'm from the Second Sight of the Inner Eye.

Where I'm from…
I am from the Heart that bleeds
From the tear of emeralds
From the White Apple Elk you cannot see.
To the tips of Medusa's tendrils.

I am from the echoed cry and sob
From the venom tipped howl
From the time of broken clocks
From the high top tower
And the sea of gold.

I am from the mighty, snarling, snipping dragon
From the flaming sword harbored by heroes
From the musky, dark, and dank tavern
Where soldiers and exiles become warriors
And from the wizard showering sparks of fey.

I am from the unfinished story and riddle
From the whispered words steaming with rebellion
I am from the fiddler with his silent fiddle
From the ship of ghostly Medallions.
And from the world that never ends.

I am from the imaginary
From the fantasy,
From the epic tales
And from the little poem half read.

I am from the everlasting light
From the darkening shadow
From the emending plight
From the ghostly meadow
And the poisoned dew.

I am from the creation of races
To the creation of the universes
From the babies' cradle
Even to the last breath of the tale.

I am from the white canvas spilled with inky words,
And maps drawn far from the scale of pages
From the fluttering tales of the messenger birds,
And the furious sparkling rage.

I am from the colorful world of the sublime
From the epidemic of the darkest foe
And the forsaken savior of light
To the Elf with head held high and white bow.

I am from the world of majesty and mystery.
From the tales of old and laughter of berserk men.
From the Hydra's mouth of mouths and its hiss,
To the jubilant jolly smile of the jester.

I am from the world of 'seeing is believing'
From the tales spoken around the camp fire
From the Crucible and its melting pot
And from the Fern tree of the Golden Apple.

I'm from the creatures, the monsters, the storytellers,
The mages and their pages, the warriors and the maiden,
Even rulers of the kingdom that take residence
On the white prison we call paper.