There exists a world which never has been.
It's trapped inside some forgotten pen,
behind dead pixels on a faded screen,
or in spent ribbon of a typing machine.
Possibility permeates through the expanse,
waiting for fate to ask for a dance.
The silent inhabitants, patient in turn,
doubt their inheritance, fervently yearn.
Villains and heroes rocked by the tide,
await the appearance of a worthy guide.
Words of the worthless wither, grow cold:
A story is nothing without being told.
But dawn breaks on the place unexplored,
a reality wakes and flies to the door.
A mind has discovered it, given it voice.
Something about it prompted the choice.
Soft music is playing, a song in the air:
choreographed notes of manifest care.
Crystals of thought flow onto the paper.
Spilling and spreading, they joyfully caper.
The question remains, but all in good time:
Is this one your world, or could it be mine?