Poeation Point Great poems grow like trees From the creative sap of unconsciousness Burst forth many seeds Dropping on the sterile, cold surface Of our lives, most loose their Intoxicating vigor And lie dormant or die. Yet sometimes miracles happen: Words gain magic And ideas bud from imaginations Like blossoms in spring. In such moments The pen moves with uncanny speed And thoughts blaze from the unconscious Like fireworks on paper Whose faint remnants we read.

Ella:	Literature often resembles archaeology. The relics we obtain from most archeological ruins are but shadows of an original splendor. So too are printed words but relics of original thoughts.
Shu:	There is a beauty in that: some thoughts are best kept in private. Our world is already overloaded with relics, many of which should be swept away.

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Copyright (c) 1993, 2008 by T Newfields
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