I sat here, for an hour, or so,

And let my pen, dance to and fro,

And wrote in depth, from feeling’s spire,

A well of dreams, of a heart’s own desire.

And as I wrote, it became thus so,

That pen, and I, began to glow,

And brought to life, a work entire,

Of longings well hid,

In a sea, of thoughts’ mire.

And then I looked,

And beheld a sight,

Of pages well versed,

Beyond contrite.

Was this a harbinger?

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Of a quest unknown,

Or verses that sang,

Without knowing a song.

And still, my pen,

Danced on and on,

Like a gypsy that twirls,

To a fever pitched song.

Like the sun from the heavens,

On dew’s sprinkled ground,

It sparkled and shone,

Without making a sound.

And still I looked,

My pen, did not retreat,

As it danced on the pages,

Neigh, missing a beat.

One page became many,

Many became more,

The fountain where my heart did sit,

Grew greater ever more.

And at its great crescendo,

Though deftly did it play,

The stars like dust,

Did beckon thus,

With silver drops of rays.

Night had over taken,

Only stars, bore fruit of light,

And in this serene, majestic scene,

My pen, grew limp, of life.

I sat there all that mystic night,

My pen,

My words,

My heart’s respite.

And in the morn,

At break of day,

I read the pages,

Of yesterday.

And there between the words of rhyme,

Of ages upon ages, within my own time,

It came to me, as never before,

The shackles that bound me,

Lay broke on the floor.

That day, that night,

That in-between.

That magical time,

That magical being.

The words, are somewhere written,

Though faded with great time,

And though I hid them well, it seems,

They know, no sense of time.

I still long for that blissful night,

And that cathedral ceiling, of heavenly light,

And that pen, which I kept,

And hold close to me,

For now, and ever, till end’s eternity.