The Science Fiction Author

I am a wanderer:
Full of purpose, empty of meaning,
Dreaming myself into a future
More poignant than my now,
Or any nows hereafter.

I am a spirit:
Powerful yet without hope
That I can chart eternity,
Or dip my hands into the waters
Of the human mystery.

I am a child:
Playing with the toys I found
Outside the realm of time,
Fitting the pieces together
Unto the hour of my waking.

I am a witch:
Casting mirrors at myself
From gracious angles
To flatter my selfish need
For the wonderment of foreign eyes.

I am a notion:
A half-formed whisper
On the edge of sanity
That wishes to seed the green pastures
With daisies and Adonis red.

I am silence:
Creating pictures without lines,
Roads without horizons,
Dresses without seams,
Thoughts without conclusions.

I am a friend:
Looking for a hand to make this real,
Knowing when I close my eyes
The spinning world dissolves
And only your memory holds me,
Makes me breathe,
Makes me want to slip into dance
Beyond the rising stars.

Shall I burn the truth of me
Into you
As the dream of you is burned
Into me?
Or shall I walk by you with a knowing smile?

The smile is yours.
You live through me.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com