wet dirt
adhere to me
sand of the earth
mold me into being
your perfect being

(an inexistent being)

mother
nature
embrace me
allow me into your center
i will burn at your core
to become nothing
once more

Creativity is an opening,
A struggle fraught with doubt,
Unlikely to produce something
Beautiful, yet reverberations mount,
A gathering of half-ideas now
Open to others to make once
Yours, fully theirs, a bow
To the dimming pulse
Of an idea meant to endow

He awoke: swollen passivity; embraced in
Canvasing warmth. An-other stood taut.

Now they folded over him, caressing him,
In his sagged skeletal frame. Embroiling him
In frantic whispers. They held his sunken
Face: wet with old-worn sobs and tears and
Shouts and fears, primal moans and hunger.

He turned to look into an-other's eyes:
His brimming.

Next he would come to see
The things themselves.

Huddled shadow, hunched
Under rugged oak tree

Carp swim in darting
Pummels, refracted scales
Shining rainbow
Droplets

Shimmering on the shifting surface
Was him, an-other face, unknown and
Alien: crinkled with crevices and dark
Swollen eyes.

His ear twitches:
Voice. Dripping
With full-throated
Fervor

He turns to face
An-other man
Distant shadow
On the horizon
Waving disjointed
Stick-like appendage
Silhouetted by the
Setting sun.