Some Thoughts about Creative Birthing
Poems grow like trees
From the creative sap of unconsciousness
Burst forth many seeds
Dropping on the sterile, cold surface
Of our lives, most lose their
And lie dormant
Yet sometimes miracles happen:
Words gain magic
And ideas bud from our depths
Like seedlings in warm spring.
In such moments
The pen moves with uncanny speed
And thoughts blaze from the unconscious
Like sparks from a potter's kiln
Whose baked relics we read.
||Isn't literature a form of archaeology? The relics we obtain from most ruins are but shadows of an original splendor. So too are printed words mere relics of original thoughts.
||(coughing harshly) Ah, our world is already overloaded with relics, many of which should be swept away.