moment by moment,
images once sharp
explode into a million
brilliant flashes
and then rain down,
fading as they fall,
upon a now-foggy mind

darkness is a body,
like the ocean surf,
crashing upon the shore
of consciousness:
illumination yields
its own rewards,
though always, inevitably,
back to darkness we return

this body gives and takes,
pushing and pulling
energies unseen — those that guide
the hand, the pen, the brush,
that give life to stale
monologues and blank canvases
in turn — but ever in the picture,
and forever will this act
of blatant creation
demand this covenant —

writer and writing;
and the thousand other types
of artist and artsy folk
and their divinations —

speaking frankly,
these are the moments
i wonder about the most

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