I, Writer

Pen of crystal; ink, liquid gold.
"No impure heart can use it," I'm told.
"Lest such a heart shrivels and dries.
Knowing the peril that, in this pen, lies,
Any non-dreamer who wields it, dies."

The shopkeeper, peering bleakly at me,
Touches not the pen I see.
Within a glass case the wondrous pen
Draws the eyes of all women and men.
It is only a simple matter of when.

"By this pen was love found at first sight
By it that same love won the fight,
Estranging him from love he had won,
Hands red by deed required of some.
Two lovers, lives lost in love undone."

"This pen wrote the tale of an embattled queen,
Working to stop a bloody scene.
Her people, by edict, doomed to be killed.
A king's heart, with poison, his enemy had filled.
His wife's only chance: to be steel-willed."

"The ink in this pen was made, not on earth,
But in shop celestial, where known is a soul's worth.
There such ink was in this crystal made.
No treacherous hand has ever betrayed
Its purpose.  Such, God's own hand has stayed."

The shopkeeper's words have done naught to still
Excitement starting, this heart, to fill.
This heart, beginning to know
What brought it here scarce moments ago
Is decided.  I feel it start to glow.

A moment's silence.  Shopkeeper and I
Look unblinking, eye to eye.
"Never have I had the thought this to do,"
Shopkeeper murmurs. "But I feel it too.
I believe this pen was meant for you."

With shaking hands he unlocks the case.
By aid of glove, pen removed from its place.
Heaven's pen now in my hand gleams.
Twas indeed meant for me, it seems.
I, Writer, now wake from my dreams.

I sit up in my small twin-sized bed,
Enthralled by visions that dance in my head.
Knowing that my dreams are meant to be real,
Sensing that my sorrows have healed,
I, Writer, envision a vast, open field.

This field is home to all of my aches,
My hurts, my pains, yet too, glistening lakes,
Flowing rivers, and streams, and forests green,
Wondrous mountain ranges never seen.
I, Writer, make them so blue, so green.

Dream to make beauty is something I hold
Deep at my center.  My dream is pure gold.
A dream able to carry me through.
A dream big enough to enthrall me anew.
I, Writer, give this dream to You.

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