A Million poems are buried
in my heart
waiting for excavation.

Waiting for me to take
pen like shovel forged
from golden Ink,
to make contact with page.

Dig with breath, and focus,
to make headway
inside prose, I do.

Dig in place
where time stops and tunneling commenses towards heart.

Soon headway is made,
as cord is struck that resonates with words.

Words that form
complete visions
and thus a poem is born.

And then... there's only
999,000,000 to go.