“Therefore we thank Thee for our little Light That is dappled with Shadow.”

I think these thoughts are not my own; Except for lucid whispers From faint dreaming Or day-long nightmares tearing away. But we are all aware now; The Dreamers will awaken me Though we never sleep again.
I think these thoughts are not my own When memory comes without my bidding Or ability to forget. For endless moments listen Without attention to diction Or need to fear any consequences From the chance of any meaning.
I think these thoughts are not my own; Thought spoken and kept as True—sheltered from my own understanding I repeat what voices say Without pause or notation—Simplicity Is too Difficult to comprehend.

I think these words are not my own; Without description Symbol or History All message is rhythm—and The act is one of tragedy.
I think these words are not my own; A passage without subject Cannot edify even the most perceptive Or hold consequence to any departing hero.

These words –Without—
Are not –Meaning—
My own –or—
Voice –Voice— Beyond the Sound Of Paper burning; My own pages to the Last.