And so it begins again:
I pick the pen up as
my being must overflow into something.
I reach into the darkness in search of light,
come away with nothing,
but never give up the fight.
I dig into the soil,
I toil and I toil,
but what comes to be,
simply must be.
The seed planted, inspiration grown,
nothing sought, nothing known,
alas.
A sprout.
And it grows.
And it grows further.
A beautiful blue and purple tree,
a Willow.
I smile, and then, no...
A man-sized black pit,
in the the center.
So I crawl in and I sit
upon a throne of darkness, surrounded by despair,
wreaked upon by hatred and loneliness,
shown not the fair.
But then all is blood-scorching red,
everything in fire and ice,
and let it be said:
I never give up the fight,
for I know,
two darks make a light.