Am I yet a poem, lyrics

in the mind of an artist,

the song of a soul,

a half-dreamt stanza and nothing more?

Is that enough, to be imagined

but still unbreathing, lost

in the labyrinth of an artist?

I hope, I yearn, for more—

here is my pen, there your brush,

I'll write the words and you paint

the potential, the possibility of our collaboration.

I am your poem, your muse,

and you my creator.

Create me.

In your mind, child of your

eyes and ears and spirit triumphant,

I come to be,

and now I pour from your fingers,

your voice and your vision,

a poem, a painting—

a sunrise on paper and a waterfall in words.

I am a poem, waiting to be written.

My poet, come write me.