My cold, grave fingers hold
The precious, whose value untold.
Wishing I had a feeble better;
Oh, Dreams, do you read my letters?

When Illusion becomes the false monarch,
Life looks unneedingly calm; so stark.
Then, diamond towers all shatter down,
Painting my aggrieved arteries brown.

Fears from nowhere walk into me,
Knocking the doors of heart, fervently.
“Had I giant sword to slay thee;
With it, a grain of courage, my enemy.”

Thoughts sail down with silky grace
In the oceans of my tears, as I gaze
At the stars in my dark daylight;
This is my own battle; my fight.

The wicked world points out at you;
Never care, no more shall it do.
Walk your own, firm steps with light;
With the hope and might, do the act right.

And, my cold, grave fingers hold
The precious, whose value untold.
Now, my bloodless veins fail and tire;
Still, I hold, the sands of fire.