Within me are the makings of a perfect storm;
tumultuous thoughts twist and tangle together with long-lost figments and fancies,
kicking up dust and stirring leaves long settled in my mind.
If I could but unleash the force of these imaginings and develop them into something tangible,
there may just happen to be a mind-storm of epic proportions.
Alas, as I place pen upon paper, all becomes calm.
My hand stays still as a statue.
Not one thought flutters.
Not one picture glimmers in the light of an idea.
Not one ink stroke does my pen produce.
Nothing at all.
The leaves settle once again.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
Within me are the makings of a perfect storm;
tumultuous thoughts twist and tangle together with long-lost figments and fancies,
kicking up dust and stirring leaves long settled in my mind.
If I could but unleash the force of these imaginings and develop them into something tangible,
there may just happen to be a mind-storm of epic proportions.
Alas, as I place pen upon paper, all becomes calm.
My hand stays still as a statue.
Not one thought flutters.
Not one picture glimmers in the light of an idea.
Not one ink stroke does my pen produce.
Nothing at all.
The leaves settle once again.