The Writer

The Writer sits
Before the blankness of his paper

He has all the words of power
To create anything
To his very whim

Flames spring forth
And spread across the paper
Through the darkness
Branding words
Shaping worlds

From what would be the blankness of the barren
Field of the mind, of the reader
Is now cultivated
In to a blossoming forest of color

Still the flames continue
A storm arises
The clouds swallow up the
Pleasant light that bathes the
Garden of creation

The storm clouds argue and boom
And then in comes the winds
The wind shreds the very fabric of thought

But the wind puffed it self out
And the clouds drift on ward

The sun again pours out its gentle light

And the flowers merge forth
From the graves of the former
More glorious then ever

The Writer keeps writing
Ever changing the world
That he creates