With a ceaseless imagination
I am blessed.
I write so oft',
That I forget to rest.
My mind works, constant,
All the day,
Keeps me happy,
And will always.
Lonely? Sometimes, but not much.
Friends, they are, and I am such
Who requires not blood and flesh
To consider them human like the rest.
When I was sad, they cheered me so,
And they never ever go,
Unlike the unreliable ones
Of fate' s many twists and puns'
"I am the giant, great and still,
Who sits upon the pillow hill..."
And soes my world, my fantasy,
Not letting reality bother me.
Home and fortress, It's been both.
To it I've sworn an author's oath
To protect, and to watch it grow,
Indeed, how I love it so.
Prosperity or sadness work their turns -
One city grows, another burns.
Puppetmaster, I am not,
For, with truth my tales are fraut.
I am a knight, my sword is my pen,
And though, time and time I fall again,
At last, I'll rise victorious,
And pass the final, lengthy test.