I have lived a thousand lives,
And crossed the garden of time and space,
I have known love and loss and kinship,
And fought a hundred holy wars;
The architects of the human condition,
Have laid their blueprints in my mind,
They’ve hugged me as I’ve laughed,
And held me as they watch me cry,

I’ve seen the pain of generations,
And held it all inside my head,
Infinite infinities as neat as rice bowls,
All furled up and stowed deep inside;
My dearest allies span the ages
Escaping lifetimes with their pens,
Weaving silk like waltzing spiders,
Webs of silver through my head,

My house is built from doors and mirrors,
And peopled with all of humankind,
Paragons and pariahs mingling together,
Dancing in an escape from time,
And I am nothing but their slate,
Pounded from mica and shadows of life,
Blank and beckoning like an expanse of ocean,
Which by their hands will swell alive,

Clay and salt water stirred together,
Into a veritable lagoon of ink,
Cracking leather and whispering pages,
Engulfing all there is of me,
As I embrace my baptism of manuscript,
And dunk my brow in the wordsmith’s font,
I’ll lie back prostrate on the sheets,
And ride the words a world along.