How are writers borne?
Are they picked off the shelf in a pack,
sown into dry bedrock,
watered by torrents,
of famine, illness, death.
Their genius nurtured,
by the 4 horsemen,
and their apocalypse.
Are they the fruit of wild tress?
Spread by bird wings,
and gusts of wind,
to taste the world,
as the sweet spring.
Before dropping down,
to make their own fruit,
their own tale.
Do they thrive in the city?
Like ivy creeping around a building,
clinging to the stonework,
peering in the windows,
rooted deep as subways.
As invasive,
and as honest,
as the rock doves roosting above.
Are they born of flesh and blood?
Fed on ignorance,
sprinkled with just enough insight,
that they want,
they yearn,
they learn to spit back the bitter filth,
and savour each sprig of truth,
until they sprout,
and spread their long low roots,
grasping at each pocket of air
to reach,
to grow,
to grow.