"We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep"

I am vexed
I cannot write, they come to me only in dreams
whispering the perfect phrase, the stone
that will lock all others into place.

It is so clear, in my dream.

Each morning, I race to scribble
my newest truth and wonder why,
pen to paper, I find it hardened,
malformed in the waking light ...
a mooncalf, yes.

They say the faerie folk give to mortals gold
that, the next day, turns in its pouch
to yellow leaves or a lump of coal...

a lump in the throat and a pain behind the eyes, in my case.
It crouches, waiting to spread itself out
weblike along the inside of my skull.
All day I mutter to myself
and down pint after pint to drown
the taste of the sea so heavy in my mouth.

to damn the faeries and their fools gold.

But, instead I let my forehead rest
against the wood of the table as
I feel the cold making a knot in my stomach:
Last night I slept but did not dream
And I know they have gone for good this time.
I will write the epilogue in supplicant prayer.
Prospero may be noble, but I am groveling for my audience

knowing, as I do, the ending,

regardless of the story, is nothing more.