Your ink assembles into timeless nouns and verbs on pages.
You reveal yourself to me in stages.
You are wild — like a beautiful night unfolding full of midnight sun,
dusk to dawn moon-rise and twilight phases.
You take my breath away over and over again
and confront me with the memory of my own stardust.
You are black magic.
When it all falls down,
you mine the rubble for uncut diamonds.
You light fires and rain oceans over forests,
you create emotional experiences and scenes
captivating imaginations as you runaway with us evergreen.
You connect and provoke.
You give meaning to thoughts and feelings.
You muse the world and let us adore you.
Oh my gosh — how we can’t help but adore you.
You spill our guts out and narrate them on the stage/page,
you’re our self-righteousness and righteous rage.
You offer perceptions of misadventure and joy
for variations of humans to relate.
You let us fall in and out of love with the world again and again.
When everybody’s talking loud and saying nothing,
you say less and give us something.
You’re the everlasting story whose wonders never cease.
You’re the hallelujah the choirs all sing.
You get me in my feelings — that’s what you do.
You’re art and I strive to wear your lyrics in motion,
I project my space in the world through you.
As you look for me from the spaces between your lines —
through winter; through spring; through summer and autumn hues,
again and again I find a piece of peace,
again and again I find my breakthrough.
