Just as night seemed dark, damp, and wet,
a light came on inside my head.
I rushed to write
what came out was beyond my mind.

The pen played—
as if possessed,
all over the paper
next to my bed.

But these were not dreams.
That were letters of belief.
They were letters of relief.
They were more than they seemed.

They built castles.
They crumbled empires.
They built and they tore
till I couldn't write anymore.

What was left was a poem,
written by a man possessed.
I can show it to you one day,
but for now I need to rest.