or
The mystery of a flowering writer
I don’t know what to write about
I don’t know what to think
I don’t know what will be given next
I don’t know what I’ll have to face
I seem ready for something
though I’m not sure just how big
what unexpected thing will fall
to crack my patched heart yet?
I know something is waiting
I know I’ll learn from it
I know that it’s for good in the end
I know I shouldn’t worry
But how long must I wait
for such a terrible thing
so strange, so empty, and yet so whole
so nameless and so wonderfully mysterious
and yet so sharp and clear
It seem as if an ocean awaits
it has the peace as well as the grace
but hidden I can feel the power
of turbulence so great I could cower
Something hidden
I can always feel
beginnings and endings
ideas to be real
and seem to hear the waves
of what could only be
the ocean of endless stories
coming crashing down on me.
<+~.~*~.~+> By P. L. Rao
1-3-2006
