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.