Once upon a time,
a hero in his storybook,
climbing up a castle wall
with a wild and burly look,
named himself the author of his fate.
Once upon a wall,
the paint upon the canvas,
frozen in a summer sunset,
admired, as tree and grass,
the perfect picture he had made.
Once upon a sunset,
a song on guitar strings
blessed the world
the way a bird sings—
like it was his own composition.
And once upon a world,
man—microscopic man—
shouted from his sliver of time
the way only a human can—
telling stars that he has never seen, “I am.”
Gratefully His 