He writes in pieces reaching for light and noise.
He doesn't know he's living, that its all his choice.
Turning days into ink without asking if it's right.
Turning himself into the page like stars on night.
A quiet discipline in one hand.
Outpouring hourglass sand.
Restless weather in the other hand.
Too many urgent demands.
He builds men from breath and consequence.
Women from earth, sky and all of the senses.
Places unknown, shadows with names that walk.
Animals that run amok, others that creep and stalk.
Then he steps back, amused at his storm.
Thus his sorcery in mystic prose is born.
He borrowed fire in his hand, he didn't create it in his palm.
But he sharpened it madly, and threw it on words like napalm.
Between obedience and refusal.
He learns the shape of his own attention.
The depth of his own endless reflection.
Conjuring need and desires to follow his direction.
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