When I started,
pressing freshly chipped graphite to
faintly lined paper,
everything was blank.
That strange shade between night and dawn
where inspiration blooms daintily
but the masterpiece is unborn.
The pencil grates,
deeply and with great hesitation.
Something forms.
The barrier ignites.
Pouring across line after line,
the very world -
in fact, all worlds and creatures
and the space between stars -
cascades in infinite guises of stories.
And when truths and lies and absurdities
have set within the housing of literature,
that, my friend, is poetry.
