An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead  
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,

two,

three -

it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses  
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.