I am a dreamer. I used to sit in my elementary school gymnasium pretending that death eater's — the evil henchmen of Lord Voldemort from the wizarding world of Harry Potter — would burst into the middle of the school assembly. I would imagine them posing a grave danger to the continuation of the very important assembly itinerary, only to be stopped by the magical prowess of none but yours truly.

My life has often been flooded by other such imaginations which never cease to spice up my daily comings and goings. I find that one does not need to have a virtual reality machine to fight orcs in Middle Earth or throw the final pitch of the World Series. I believe that — under the astute tutelage of writers such as Rowling, Tolkien, Lewis or Rothfuss — we can all learn to catch Pokemon in our backyard without the aid of a phone app.

The following poem started as one of those daydreams itself. As I tinkered with the words, I began to consider exactly how the seed of imagination took hold. Was it a quick, immediate vaulting into the dreamworld of a bored sailor? Or perhaps it was made like an iceberg and developed ... lethargically.

Furtive clouds of wispy thought drift.

Loose strands of alleged imagination,

Condense into nebula.

Central mass coalesces.

Gravity

I orbit,

Akin to Sputnik on maiden voyage.

Atmosphere gained only as I slow myself.

Void

This planet incomprehensible.

A puzzle of truant pieces,

Fractured language of incongruent clauses

Paradoxical prognosis

Joy or Grief?

Pallid exuberance.

Love and anathema alike in one

"Land ho!"

Of course! Aboard pirate ship I must be.

No, bored stiff on Uncle's sloop I see.

Held captive at bay by blasted Ennui,

I set to my pen, make myself free.

My pen

Duller than my unkempt slag-iron knife

Mightier than my sword only by consolation

I have no sword

Sordid splendor — that would be its title

Quick jab and halting thrust

The smell of blood and sailor’s musk

Pirate, I

Wish it be so

Anything better than furtive clouds and damning crow