sometimes
i write
i write with an empty inkwell
there are no words
the page remains
blank
stark and formless
like the world before the world

simply possibility

there is an art
in the act
the act before the act
i see beauty in the phantom
the ghost before the life
the promise of tomorrow
on a cold blank space
it is hope and shapeless yearning
like the onset of impending love
still miles away – but coming

to compose without words
is to weave magic in the air
and make the emperor’s new clothes
but people will still stop and stare
in awe
of
nothing