Inspiration, like a trickle
beginning at the skin,
moves hot beneath the surface
to flood the veins within.

The page is blank before me.
Pen lifeless as a board
until I pick it up again
and fill the page with words.

Ink gushing over paper,
pen and poet become one.
Veins burning with a purpose
with the heat of every sun.

And all the clocks hang silent,
and all the planets do align
when I raise the poem to the light
and read what's only mine.