In Which I Breathe Through Silver

for anyone that's ever sat on the rooftop of this world, gazing toward another.

“To the one who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though ‘breathed through silver’.” - J.R.R. Tolkien

And thus, lost in the quiet hours,
when the living call down the void, when spirits,
stark as breath on cold winter glass, indulge themselves 
a flicker in the land of waking; I sink,
to feel it all so deeply.

I sink into visions, and drift, 
gossamer-light––a dandelion seed––
on the moontide of primordial lamplight, 
where even Death dreams 
of lives never lived; of gardens
blooming in reverse.

Come, then, Morpheus, gather my soul,
as, with eyes closed, I stir the strange sentiments
that come as only dreams do come––
a sailor gone to sea, 
a light breeze that rattles the trees, 
the moon as she pulls the dark ocean back,
a crushed flower falling from a sleeping hand,
dying grain collapsing beneath the stars.

Come, Sandman, cast your dreamer's dust,
and watch me breath through silver,
tales that the sun glimpses not, gathering 
creation materia from the borderlands
of Rivendell, Moria, the forests of Fangorn, 
places unknown, unwritten; the great windswept climes 
of the unmapped country.

Come, myth-walker, dream-spinner, to the quiet hours,
where I lean heavy at the door between worlds; its iron etchings
staining my skin in patterns of green, orange patina.
See my feet rooted in a clap of summer grass, 
the hidden stars tickling my ears.
You might know my moon-burned heart, 
the dying language of its passions;
my dreamy eyes, hare-wild,
mad with ‘forever’.