Tis said these fallen lanterns light

The souls of men upon their midnight-way;

That embers dream to

Receive their beams of magic white.

The mysteries of a moonlit radiance,

echoing off the hollows of mortal souls

Here, where the shadow of dark solemn oaks

brood silently on some misty morning,

a dream-spelled enchantment holds power

that might diffuse a breath,

a violent flame

or the beating of one's heart.

From the arcana of words,

there comes the mystery of hope,

set free from a heart once caged

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in darkness.

By words

of binding

shall ye know me,

lest my verses

set the world alight

and all is transformed.

The soul, long tired of humbler views

now delights in the violent hues

of amber-burning battlefields-

the dead men stretched across the sky,

and so with joy,

we behold

the perfect form

of a wish

in free-fall

a gaze enraptured

by rays of crimson,

silver and gold:

a flaming tatter

of a dream

blazing to a new rebirth

as I sing

my burning verse

across the sky.