Speak to me in secret tongues, you wanderer of twilight worlds

Stolen words you gave to me as treasure maps

Drawn in disappearing ink beneath my skin

Where once you went in search of meaning

And came away with a dream of emptiness beyond the wall

These are the anchors that hold me in place

Out on this edge you will not let me cross

For fear of what you have known there

Lead me on through the pathways you once walked

And I will follow you to the end of existence

Where out among the dying stars we dance in the funeral glow

Only sometimes bright enough that we can raise our heads

And look back at the far distant world that could not hold us

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I was looking over the books on my old bookshelf, books I’ve collected over the years since I was a kid. It’s interesting—I can pick out ones that, now I’m thinking about it, I realize have in some way influenced my writing, either stylistically or through the imagery and emotions they gave to me as a kid. All I have to do is look at the cover and memories of those stories come flooding back, even though I haven’t read them in years.

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