Sleep

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.

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