When I write, I always find myself
Closing my eyes and seeing a speck of light.
And when I open my eyes, I see before them,
A vision of a ribbon dancer, a figure of
Secretive strength and awe delight.
I touch the tip of my pen to paper,
As she taps her toes on the floor,
The ink flows out as I press to make a mark,
Her ribbon flies to wherever she commands.
Every graceful movement she makes
Like a cursive letter weaved from my pen,
Floating, darting, here and there,
Like some curious nose tasting the air.
And as the rhythms grow untamed and fast,
The crack of her ribbon explodes into colours,
An extension of herself into the outside,
As my writing grows longer and longer
Like vines, leaves and flowers blooming
From the stem until a period is placed at the end.
Her motions are fluid, and all her gestures
And twirling, complicated and tangle-like
But it always ends up coming out clean.
As the performance is nearing its conclusion,
She falls to her knees, still waving the ribbon,
Not in surrender, for she then let her back fall,
Arms open, eyes open, heart open, mind open
As if offering something to the Muses in return
And my pen comes to a stop.
