Resting in the shadow,
Is a man without a face that is know,
And in his grasp is the dream I most cherish.
My pen gives him form,
As the mask on his face covered,
The eyes that I so desire to see and make weep.
Yet the armor,
That rests on his shoulders,
Brings such oddities to my mind.
The darkness and the light,
Reflected in the mix match of his clothes,
As tightly he holds the artifact that I most hunger.
Once more my words dance around,
The shadowed man's form as he laughs,
And sings the songs that I present to the wind.
Tighter his grip grows,
On the one thing that I hold,
To be the dearest of treasures.
Deeply his gloved hand,
Holds the hearts of those,
Who precise me with their own eyes.
His mask covered his eyes,
Yet I know as the paper in the wind,
Tells me that without a doubt I know him.
He is I,
And I am He,
And in the end he and I are WE.