Upon this ragged, worn, and wretched brow,
rests the fever of worlds built fresh in fire.
A creator, broken, a man unhinged,
a wand’rer well-spoken, roaming the fringe.
He fights and toils, births wartorn planets,
whispers of rage, roars in raucous silence.
Whether in verse, or slave to lurid prose,
the visage you see is a pauper poor
begging a drop from the Pierian Spring.
Eleven nations trodden, and counting,
now he repasts in the windswept Rockies
Where winds weep hallowed tales that shake the world.
Read JD's interview on The Forge