Who am I to dare to dictate prose upon paper?
What stories have I sown in the haste of life and loss of heart?
When did I dream of epics drenched in emotion?
How many heroes have messaged their stories through time to me?
Why can I claim the title of dictator; my rule defined in keystrokes?
Tis a simple solution that tears from my fingers against the rational of my rearing,
The void of the moment is ignited by inspiration; consumed in a conflagration of voice,
I cannot change the chance of my charge; my characters chained in clarity,
The breathing and beating of my body demand I drift into the daze of past,
The sagas and songs scream at my soul and render my slumber asunder;
Not until the lines are long, the lovers lose their chance and the protagonist perishes
Will I seek the sheets of solace from the ferocity of enduring my endeavors
Spent from spinning fairy tales of freedom and servitude; I transcend.