I am a poem writing itself. Unfinished, some days I go hanging upon half a phrase, sometimes to go without meaning for an hour. I dream to be of epic things, teeming with angels and devils and heroes, but I do not know more than the words that are written here. I think it must be nice in the stories outside my little window into being, but I am satisfied merely to have begun, and to know I have an ending that gives me a reason to be.
