There is a letter from a world,
that was,were, and as yet would have become. . .
the now of ever lasting hour that has come from another.
Sweet sweet bitter poetic slumber,
Your world is not mine,
it was told and foretold by great olde Poesie’s;
The hour is near as I come here in place where my mind has gone by,
knowingly I am a traveler from and to,
the world of love life that we behold,
yet to be written and to be told.