Sitting in my tower, I have

fallen into the arms of Morpheus,

his mother having named him

needed none to conceive of him.

I am, far from the miracles of

immaculate conception, dwelling on a face

I have not encountered and a mind that

is not mine to shape nor fashion, towards

a mould of my own understanding.

Had Zeus the courage to carry out

his fury upon the son of

Night, I would not be a continuous

figure upon the scaffolding of this existence.

My own courage lacks conviction,

for I feel his sweet arms around me

and relax into them. Had I looked

outwards, I would have seen her,

gently waiting to catch me when I arrived.