A new fascination,
A new inspiration,
Keeps me awake tonight.
Tonight I wander,
Aimlessly,
And with not but zeal,
Through ghost towns of gloom,
And Merry cities of Joy.
I sing with them,
And with them I laugh,
Their Sadness makes me sad,
Their victory euphoric.
Their voices whisper,
In tones hushed but firm.
They call out to me,
And they plead,
They plead that their stories be told,
That their happiness,
That their gloom,
That their guilt,
That their redemption,
That their fall,
That their rise,
That their love,
And their hatred,
Be shared.
They cannot speak,
For they are not real,
But with the aid of a free mind,
The prowess of a pure heart,
And knowledge of the terrain of a make-believe land,
Their stories and their tales,
Are not hard to find.
For they cannot speak,
And yet they can be heard.
I am their lyre,
I make them real,
I give them shape,
I give them voice.
Some are Eccentric,
Some insane,
Some Obsessive,
Some Merry,
Some Dull,
And yet all share the lust,
For their stories to be told,
And their ballads to be sung.
I traverse dimensions,
Too many to count,
Travels that bring me,
To a realization but obvious,
That their stories and their tales,
Are naught but pieces,
Of a cosmic Jigsaw,
Naught but fragments,
Of a Multiversal truth.
I connect with them,
I forge a bond of trust,
Between that which is real,
And the immigrants from a land far-off.
A new fascination,
A new inspiration,
Keeps me awake tonight.
They make me their lyre,
And I them mine.
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