Wrote this last night. Don't ask, other than I was pondering plot points and got a mite carried away with a particular feeling that wouldn't bug off.
I press my fingers together and worlds appear.
I turn the course of the world on the spin of a well-timed word.
My nails strike the keys, and villains appear;
By callous-worn hands heroes rise and fall.
I am a composer.
I am an artist.
I bend and twist, build up and burn down;
Come dance to music only I can hear
--unless by chance our spirits meet, and our beating hearts drum as one;
Come see the threads become one tapestry
--and shards of glass create windows stained.
Beauty rises on the wind and shadows sink with a blood-red sun;
Enemies come, an ocean vast, deep, wide, high and long--
Ten thousand upon ten thousand--
And only one confronts the throng.
The curtain is my canvas; the pen remains my sword.
Fear not a bard who loves to sing,
--but dread him whose voice does cease.
Dread not the Teller who sports his tales;
--if his heart goes cold, let courage die.
I'll face the darkness, so you do not;
I'll eat the poison and spare you all;
And plunge the depths of bitter gall--
Even perish alone in ink--
If that means the ball of clay rolls taught 'neath my hands.
For you, my hands grow old and break;
For you my fingers twist and bend
And for you do I expend my strength.
The ink sprawls across the page,
Making me feel as a musing mage;
Join me in this war I rage;
Creating, sustaining, saving, destroying, revealing
Secrets beneath parchment hid.
So bring me pen;
Bring me ink;
Let me my own fingers break
And the canvas spin beneath my palms.
I press my fingers
And see the turn of the universe;
Know the angle of this axis;
And the exact measure of the earth's curve;
Watch my hands all you will
But the magic shall never be revealed.