When I Write, The Earth Moves

   



mountains form

tornadoes stir

waves crash,

in accordance to my will.



I am the starlit specks of silver which burn through the velvet,

and to whom offerings of wishes and hopes are made at my debut.



I am rest after physical agony.

I am silent support during mourning.

I am the clammy akwardness before young lovers embrace.



I am where there is anything,

and where nothing is waiting to become.

I am the creator and the destroyer.



(Though to an uninspired some, I am a mere writer.)



but a mere writer never was,

and the uninspired are insensate

For a speck of silver is thought on paper,

and the uninspired choke on velvet,

and just as easily as I can become you,

You can become I.