... birthing the words, there can
be no description for the intoxication!

breathing in the fragrance of
the ink, the wind of the
muse on your shoulders
propelling you on to choosing
words which come from the
zephyrs aroused as by
angel feathers...

there's a point where effort ends
and a clarity supernatural starts...
a point when intellect is of no use,
knowledge has no meaning...
all you ever experienced is lost
and a new reality brings on
the pangs of prismatic ******
too exquisite to be borne...

... and so the pen becomes exhausted from it's dance, and the paper becomes a magic carpet, taking the poet beyond comprehension into...

... a nebula beyond reason...

... the special place...

... no words...

... only expression.


C. Jarvis
12/28/2019