These are no bloodless tales,
Cold-forged by a waking mind:
I've no such craft.
This is no made-up tongue,
Planned for easy reading,
But the very language of my soul.

Deep within the Dragon dreams,
Tapping the spring in the mountain's heart,
Unfettered by humanity,
And drags me down, night after night,
Into such adventures as make me feel
This world's the dream, wherein I rest.

These are no constructs calmly plotted,
Parts interchangeable, characters mutable:
I have lived them, every one.
It happened thus, I write it thus,
And not all the force of fiction's fashions
Can abate the glamour of true vision.

My lion's heart felt every sorrow,
It leapt upright with every joy.
Gladly it suffered through each love.
Change it?  As well betray myself.
The lion quails beneath the menace
Naked in the Serpent's glare.

Waking brings me compromise.
I'll learn the writer's art, and mine
The finest jewels of the Dragon's hoard.
He will them lend, but never give,
And only so I polish them
Bright as the fire in his lidless eyes.

Some are inspired by Calliope,
Who sings to them upon her lyre:
My muse breathes coldly down my neck.
She may scold, and shake her head,
And even stamp her dainty feet.
But the Dragon's claws can shred fine steel.

Copyright © 1993 by Green Sky Press.  All rights reserved.  Backgrounds and images are copyright by their respective authors, who retain all rights.