Writecraft.

I press my fingers together and worlds appear.

I turn the course of the world on the spin of a well-timed word.

My nails strike the keys, and villains appear;

By callous-worn hands heroes rise and fall.

I am a composer.

I am an artist.

I bend and twist, build up and burn down;

Come dance to music only I can hear

--unless by chance our spirits meet, and our beating hearts drum as one;

Come see the threads become one tapestry

--and shards of glass create windows stained.

Beauty rises on the wind and shadows sink with a blood-red sun;

Enemies come, an ocean vast, deep, wide, high and long--

Ten thousand upon ten thousand--

And only one confronts the throng.

The curtain is my canvas; the pen remains my sword.

Fear not a bard who loves to sing,

--but dread him whose voice does cease.

Dread not the Teller who sports his tales;

--if his heart goes cold, let courage die.

I'll face the darkness, so you do not;

I'll eat the poison and spare you all;

And plunge the depths of bitter gall--

Even perish alone in ink--

If that means the ball of clay rolls taught 'neath my hands.

For you, my hands grow old and break;

For you my fingers twist and bend

And for you do I expend my strength.

The ink sprawls across the page,

Making me feel as a musing mage;

Join me in this war I rage;

Creating, sustaining, saving, destroying, revealing

Secrets beneath parchment hid.

So bring me pen;

Bring me ink;

Let me my own fingers break

And the canvas spin beneath my palms.

I press my fingers

And see the turn of the universe;

Know the angle of this axis;

And the exact measure of the earth's curve;

Watch my hands all you will

But the magic shall never be revealed.