Cherry picking words from the seeds of his mind,
Vocabulary that blossoms across each branch, swaying low
Lightning strikes in the vicinity, as he thinks
In haste, before the winds of his story rock the stems off, the entire trunk succumbing to natural forces.
Before he loses his train of thought.

This is the mind of every writer, as he sits down and rehearses the same performance with his pen,
As together they dance across the acid paper stage,
Tracking their paces, what seems like
chicken scratch.
But never counting, never accounting
for time.
Time is more than irrelevant, it is nonexistent.
For the dimensions of this world have crushed it to sheer dust
Sparkling between them, a spell of amnesia
Virgin to each other's completion

Hands stuttering with each caress, as the pen's shaft begins dampening
Unbound fury and bliss marry in hourly mass, words the pastor, the ringbearer,
the official
As he confesses to the court
through epic,
through novel,
through free verse, simply,
The intangible
'Til death do them part, 'til the last
blue-inked tear falls.

The audience, souls that long have divorced judgment, impregnating nostalgia to
conceive her emotion
Entering her, together reaching inward
enlightenment
For writing orchestrates her labor, the fluid that escapes her canal
Carrying forth the reincarnation of her child's life

The writer lives only to bear witness
To pour his heart out, an artist with a blank check to endless pastels.
The only starving aspect of him is if he
stops doing what he does best: project
his lexical show to the world.
For all his insecurities, for all his
imperfections, all his misunderstood
moments
Are in a single utterance, in a single breath
Unraveled.

To wake up from life, lifeless, whispering
to his Creator,
My God, it was absolutely breathtaking.