In times of great inspiration,
emotions flutter forth, escaping sensation
toward the ceaseless void.
Fragmented million-fold, but not destroyed.
Net in hand, I stand on the tips of my toes,
careful not to lose my balance,
and throw.

If I'm lucky, I feel a pull,
that lurches like a raging bull!
The fight is on! My newfound steed
pulls 'til my palms begin to bleed.
I hold fast, and though my feet begin
to leave the earth, I keep my grip.
And I'm flying.

But most often, Lady Luck is not with me.
A swing and a miss, and with a mighty blow,
my pride falls like a rotten tree,
and plunges into the terror that lurks below.
I sink in. I decompose. I sprout anew.
And though weak, my green arms reach,
instinctively, for the net.