To sing of myself,

A strange tune indeed,

One filled with wonder and adventure and pride and fear and joy,

A tale of many colors, none of which too dry.

 

To sing of myself,

A life led of miniscule victories,

Pictures drawn and games played,

Books read and words written - 

All worlds of imagination,

Fiction dancing through my head.

 

To sing of myself,

Currents breezing and lightning flashing in the verdant forest of the ever-dark night,

Music notes in the deep hollows of my fleshy heart sounding like thunder,

Rain pounding upon the rooftops and my mind throbbing with thought,

Snowflakes floating past the frosted windowpane of my existence.

 

To sing of myself,

Of things that are beautiful and beloved by mine own mind,

Of the moon draped in molten silver,

Of the stars blanketed with blackness,

Of the trees adorned with autumn finery,

Of the river whispering softly in the morning light.

 

To sing of myself,

And the quiet dark with which all things I love are held within

In the recesses of my ever-changing mind,

Always including those soft pawprints of the creatures that walked beside mine in this life,

And that will in the future, in all the lives to come without blinding doubt.

 

To sing of myself,

A tale woven of desperation and solicitation,

Ambition and cowardice,

Gregariousness and solitude,

Cacophony and quietness,

Rebellion and submission,

War and peace,

Intrinsically bound to my soul and my soul to it - 

An orchestra of hopeful nothings and dream-filled disasters,

Riding the harrowing avalanche that is my crazy life.