The story must be told–to me,

That I might relay it faithfully,

Lest I should write vain fantasies.

About a realm I cannot see,

But only touch with pen and ink,

And with each keyboard stroke

That strikes upon the document.

The marks these make upon the page,

Wherein the story that must be told

Is told with effectuated elevation–

These marks upon the page are

The very conversation of a realm

Beyond comprehension or adaptation.

I but transcribe the words, the tale

That is told me, of what is beyond my

Comprehension. The story must be told

To me, lest I should fail to record

With dialed accuracy what it is

That I have heard and felt, though

Not have seen, for I am blind

To those things unseen. The voice

Which I transcribe speaks through

Me, even if not to me, for I convey

Its message and grasp at its meaning

With clumsy hands and illiterate

Words that I must write down like

A child learning his letters. I tell

What I have been told, and am

Able to tell nothing more than what

Is placed upon my heart and hands

To transcribe, for I am but a fool

Of fools, without wit or wisdom,

Writing only transcriptions of

Something far beyond my com-

Prehension–dare I not say divine,

For I am of but the dust, though it be

The dust of stars from the heavens.

The story must be told, lest it fail

To be conveyed in measure or meter,

In rhyme or reason, like forgotten lore

Of ancient times laid waste in the past

With the dust of time laying thick

Upon each relic, laying in the depths

Of the earth, as a forgotten memory

With the same aforementioned dust

Laying upon the membrane of the

Mind, enshrouding it with the dust

Of ancient stars felled from heaven.