A spand of time, where words unwind,
Trickling forth over the waterfall's edge,
Filling my river with their wonders,
Was but a dream of fantastical fantasy.
Reality's riverbed laid bare, dried to finest dust,
Hollowed out trees, with no leaves,
Rested, creaked, torn in shards,
Along the writer's dream.
No magical phrases, no encryptions,
No heroic adventure, no whimsical rhyme,
Only a blank page, that held on for the ages.
