Dear James,

Here I wander
blighted of sight
a wandering soul
in the dead of night
dreaming of men in costumes
and women in fright
a crown of fire
in sad sunlight.
I wonder about Wicked
and all the men I know
wonder about life
and mystery
and sadness.
What will this new time
bring to me
what will I bring to it?
Or will it be like every year
longing and fear and pain?
I wish at the bottom of my heart
for the black knight upon black steed
but if it were left up to me
I'd settle for a moment
in the hands of greatness
left to wander the plains
of what is left to wander,
content that it may be
a sorry sight
a wandering soul
that is only me.