Poetry

From brain to paper

The image is stamped over and over in your mind,

the press never runs out of ink, drawing from a well that

refuses to appear when you actively call it.

 

The blueprints are solid, you can touch them

until it’s time to build.

 

Then they slip away, silently on the breeze

as the foundations are being laid.

 

You chase them, following every turn

whether it leads to rivers or hills, the top

of a rainbow or the boiling pot at the bottom,

 

only to find they’ve expanded somewhat

and become richer.