My palms begin to sweat
As the pressure begins to kick in
Empty page stares me in the face
My pencil is sharp, my mind races

All the wonderful things
That go through my head
Won’t go through my hand
To the pencil on to the paper

Fantastic scenes of exotic grandeur
Birds of paradise launch themselves
Into flight over the Aegean Sea

Dark pockets of terror
Bones grind, lost children
Moan for their losses

How can I write?
These ideas are far too extreme
For even me to fully understand

But there it is!
Love, the thing no one
Can entirely understand

Love, the thing that blossoms
The thing that heals
The thing that hurts
The thing that mends
The thing that breaks
The thing that gives a warmness
That can still be so cold
The thing that is so universal
It must be known to all people

Alas, we all may know Love
But how can it ever be written?
Only the pages of our lives
Could contain Love’s mysterious beauty