When the darkness clears,
I am flying through the sky.
Though I know I am asleep,
I am more awake inside the dream.
Underneath me I can feel muscles
moving up and down with the wind.
I can hear the flap of wings
and see the flash of purple scales,
shining like jewels in the moonlight.
There are sparks coming off of
the scales and they float through
the darkness like stars.
I feel the dragon begin its decent
and wonder where it has taken me.
It sets down on the grass softly
and I slide off of its back.
I look around me and, through the shadows,
I see the home that I lived in as a child.
Its curtains are closed and there
is no one home, but there is a light on inside,
as if the house was expecting me.
The dragon urges me forward,
pushing open the front door with its tail.
I slip inside quietly, afraid to see what
lies in wait within the darkness.
I can hear the sounds from the memories
that are encased within the walls,
the torment that these walls encased,
hidden from the world outside.
I take a step into the house and a breeze
follows me inside, bringing purple stars
upon it. As I look at the stars,
they fall in a path leading upwards,
footsteps appearing on the wood
as if I had already walked this path before.
I slip up the stairs, careful to step
on each footstep. Each time I do,
the sound of bells rings through the air.
The footsteps lead to my old bedroom
and the door is already ajar.
I stand in front of it and place my hand
upon the wooden surface.
I see myself as a young child and wonder
where that boy went. I feel an answering
beat inside myself and know that
I carry him within me.
Inside, the room is much as I had left it
And I head to the closet to see
If my box of treasures is still there.
The box begins to vibrate and hum softly
When it feels my gaze upon it.
I approach the box with trepidation and
anxious anticipation. I open the box,
its wood worn smooth after so long,
and look inside. Lying nestled at the bottom
of the box, on a bed of purple felt,
is a pencil. It’s yellow and has a pink eraser.
My name is written upon one of its sides.
I remember this pencil. I wrote my first story
with this pencil, wielding it like a sword on the page.
I pick it up and it starts to shine when it
comes into contact with my skin.
Purple light, so reminiscent of those stars,
begins to shine out from it and I can see
words floating through the air, words that
it had written. Soon, my bedroom is filed
with the words of all the stories I wrote here,
the stories and the words were my escape,
my safety, my refuge, my salvation.
I hear the roar of the dragon outside
and run to join him, the pencil still
spilling out words and light.
Now it’s letting loose words from stories
that came after, novels and sonnets,
poems and stories, poems and prose,
so many words and each one a joy.
Outside, the words begin to float up
into the air. The dragon gives another roar
and lets out a stream of purple fire.
I run to it, clutching the pencil
in my hands. The dragon lowers his head
so that I can climb aboard and then
he takes flight. We fly up into all of
the words I have written, every syllable,
every letter. They are like clouds in the sky,
like smoke upon the water.
As we fly further, away from what I used to be
and towards what will be, I see more words
shining in the distance. These are gold in colour
and I know that they are words that
I have yet to write for my story is
far from done. I urge the dragon onward
and when we enter the glowing cloud of words
it is like entering the sun. The dragon
give one final roar and when I wake,
there is a pencil clutched in my hand,
glowing softly and pulsing with