There's naught to be said, and less to be heard, for every word is a phantom and every ghost is absurd. What I take is a meaning, like a thief in the night, my bounty my own, whether terror or delight. Refractions and crystals, or light columns and beams, the Truth of tomorrow is gone in our dreams. And as it were a game, of memories foretold, the prophecies agate, waiting to be sold. For the realm and potential, there, has yet to be told, and the beauty behind, she is not to hold. Not without price, she can light up the skies, luminosity beams, for all of those tried: a beacon of hope, a cradle for babies, and a ladder for fools. Should one take to climbing before rising, her mind can be sane, and always surprising. Should you wake before, and twist it, it's almost like you missed it. But a rotated ladder is a mold that takes fit, a monster, of legend, and loch. A mystery foretold, by a seer now old, and late, but by men's standards, and not that of fate. For her mysteries remain, and hidden by shame, for fear of the same that is her only bane. Her mane is translucent, it squanders the light. To behold her beauty, is to be gripped by fright. A slight of hand will not work here, for the horse you are riding, operates on dare, and the courage to find her, though you still be scared. It doesn't matter your hold, to stay you must trust her, her name is nightmare. On a journey she will take you, to far away lands, where unheard prophecies are muttered to those who understand, that her beauty is to be grasped but for a grain of sand, and to behold her terror is the challenge of man. Her beauty is relentless and her eyes made of fire. I was told once a story and in turn I was a liar without commitment, without direction. 10 things I whisper, 10 mornings I dream. Each night is the same, at least it would seem. A life to be had, a vision to be seen far in the twilight of waking, the beauty breaks free.