It begins
with such ease—
the flow becomes
a flood,
a torrent.
The colors of the universe
come crashing in—
a crystal clear blur
of cosmic content.
Whether it pours
to my soul or
from it
I know not;
it is the flow of life—
who am I to question
who I am,
or why
it flows through me?
I simply open up
and let it pass through.
The hand moves;
the heart leaps;
the world is spilled out
in ink on paper;
and a knowledge,
recovered
from the dawn of time
reveals itself.
And if
there is a wall
between ink
and paper,
I shall tear it down,
stone by stone.
Such is the way
of a warrior of the pen—
Eternity will
not wait for me
to do the job
it bestowed me with.
Nor will it let me
cease until
my veins have run dry,
into words,
written
in the blood of my mind.