I’m supposed to write of flowers
of the song that summer sings
and tell of ladies in towers
covered in luxurious things.
I’m supposed to talk of spring time
and the violets in the yard
the evergreen of the creeper vine
or the mystery of the tarot card.
I’m supposed to sing of perfumes
and the vibrant color in soft twilight
of rose and almond blooms
as they grow more lovely in the night.
But instead I find myself counting stars
in a sheep-less vision of sleepless rest
wishing on spheres of silent fury so far
to send me on some kind of epic quest.
Because, you see, the music in my life
soundtracks and the very like
have made the norm seem so amazing
that, cue the tune, and I’m ready to fight.
Against dragons or demons or wizards or harm
to win a crown of glory and charm.
But I am a nobody, in a nobody age
no Knight, no Princess, no Warrior Mage;
so don’t ask me to write tales of which I know not
I am the Hero the world forgot.