This pencil is my spirited javelin,
more nurtured than a rock,
more caring than a spider of doubt:
I am a writer, always travelling.
See here, this open notebook without words,
all tangled in mind silk,
all threatening and bleak, shadowless:
how can I tempt the twists of thought to call?
How I feel the ache to grapple stories,
light a candle to talk,
encourage night to give up secrets:
I field the words like noble warriors.
Imagine stone-built kings enthroned in white,
Greek marble, and carved love,
entrap the beautiful characters:
I plague my little soldiers on the page.
I cast my artistry upon the world,
unfitting and unsought,
the battles to be fought are not won:
and the curved majesty of stars escapes.
