I sat with my thoughts and my pen and my paper,
And I waited for the right words to come.
They elluded me; no story, but a poem!
And all of hell followed with it.
I was seven, and they were twelve,
So they held the power; I was the instrument;
Unwilling to comply, unable to resist
The call of their words and the song that they sang,
Dancing about the fire, bright with shadows,
And a world gone mad in my absense.