Tis said these fallen lanterns light

  The souls of men upon their midnight-way;

  That embers dream to

  Receive their beams of magic white.

  The mysteries of a moonlit radiance,

  echoing off the hollows of mortal souls

  Here, where the shadow of dark solemn oaks

  brood silently on some misty morning,

  a dream-spelled enchantment holds power

  that might diffuse a breath,

  a violent flame

  or the beating of one's heart.

  From the arcana of words,

  there comes the mystery of hope,

  set free from a heart once caged

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  in darkness.

  By words

  of binding

  shall ye know me,

  lest my verses

  set the world alight

  and all is transformed.

  The soul, long tired of humbler views

  now delights in the violent hues

  of amber-burning battlefields-

  the dead men stretched across the sky,

  and so with joy,

  we behold

  the perfect form

  of a wish

  in free-fall

  a gaze enraptured

  by rays of crimson,

  silver and gold:

  a flaming tatter

  of a dream

  blazing to a new rebirth

  as I sing

  my burning verse

  across the sky.