About three hundred brights ago a dream spilled from me growing
It splished and splashed while I, still high on deck
Unfurled the sails and when my back was turned it over-boarded knowing
Soon all that remained was serious praying for the smashed now to become meshed.
About two hundred brights ago the dream tore from me caught legs
Gusting, blowing, why so often howling?
On a course more zigged than zagged.
That dream had me run ragged.
One hundred brights ago the dream smelled like truth itself
And illuminated that as a spectator
I could really change my view.
And to pass this on to you.
Which, when the time
is right, I do.
Thank you, friend.