fresh ink pools, mind benumbed, leaking through the stagnant nib, filling up the page with spreading patterns I cannot declare my own
am I the only one who wants to make afresh what hand and eye and mind made once before, to find the wand'ring stream of thought that led me to this pool where mirage crystalized with words and deigned a portrait to be captured on my page?
but life is not so kind to the half-blind, who see in bits and pieces and must color the betweens just to catch a glimpse of untold mystery
more's the pity; what I'd give to have the diction of another year, the fresh, uncluttered eye of mind to throw and jumble elements and still weave out the golden line that separates the madman from the muse
I'm not so special after all; just like the others I still see in part and sometimes not at all; the golden thread lies useless, and the gleam of gold has dulled if the magic and the mystery are left to past endeavors;
a maker makes, a singer sings, a tree stands treely by, all in their orbit spin unceasing - all drink the full delight of what they do
so lift your pen, weary poet; the first few lines are stained with rust; but still they must be written. speak of the music in your soul, the discord and the pain
write what you see, and what you don't, the tendril's tender blooming buds the towering trees above; write the mosses underneath, write each secret of the worlds hidden from the eye, and write the glaring lights we think we've seen before.
bring to light with blackest ink, because that's what poets do.