Dreaming Only Dreaming

I dreamed I was a writer, the pen I could not put down.
And in the dream my books would fill the library in my town.
Ah, but too the Lord hath spoken, says he; “There’s no financial gain,
T’is wealth will come to those who read the books that print your name.”

This did not make me happy for I was almost broke,
And I Say’s “Lord there is little incentive when you do for other folk.”
But as I floated around the library for in the dream this was the case,
I learned that money did not matter much when put in its rightful place.

It was here the thought occurred to me, a revelation of past years
That is took this library of books to release my childhood fears.
For I was known as a deep thinker, one rarely heard me speak
But when I put the pen to paper the Mississippi sprang a leak.

In flooding my experiences from page to endless page
I released my inner shadow removed it from its cage.
Perhaps I misinterpreted for the Lord would speak no wrong
And sweetly oh so sweetly my voice returned in song.
For the first to read the books before they were put on any shelf
Is now the author and editor of the wealth I brought myself.