A angry fire rages on in the corners of my black pupils yeilding it into reflections that shimmer light upon old coffee colored paper like a light house.
My old hands, cracked, and withered like an old crispy flower lay upon my tan paper, vibrations consume my hands.
There in my head is a river called creativity and it is where I get my power.
In the dead of dawn there glows a  golden ray of sun filling my sweat beads lodged between the wrinkles on my face.
My pen is alive as I am too.
I do not write.
My pen does
And the universe tells it what to do.