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.
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.