To wake up and run to the drawing board with no control of your hands,
and no control of your mind,
yet words flow freely,
and images roam the walls of your mind so effortlessly—
how are you not frightened?

To be overwhelmed with bewilderment as you gaze at a masterpiece
built by hell with no trace of its creator,
knowing you are not the reason it is there—
do you not see that open door?
Do you not see that phantom face smiling at you hungrily?
Did you not hear its grumbling belly?

Run!
Do you not see in its hands are chains of iron made for you?
Whatsoever is good does not leave you deceived or enchanted.
It reveals its origins, and you will find every trace of sound wisdom.

But that phantom wordsmith who whispers in your ears,
endlessly leaving you in wonder
and entangled in the false warmth of blood-rush,
has many talents of a magician on a stage,
to keep you intoxicated by smoke and mirrors in a gold cage,
until it has successfully engulfed every essence of you.