On the white screen dance the stringed dots Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts Slowly they emerge handholding lines Not always yielding intended designs. Something was brewing inside the head Coaxing to weave and take it ahead The drunken horses so wildly gallop There is no leash to make them stop. Nerves are taut and they won't relax Till all is vented they reach the ****** It was thus fated the moment it was sown What's to be grown could never be known. As the fever wanes arrives the new child It may be adored or it may be defiled The canvas is washed clean as in the rain Something is brewing to be vented again.