my work contains brief
flashes of brilliance,
where,
at least in my own mind,
words and meanings and voices join
and find the best place
of all.
the picture is painted with perfect
strokes,
and all is understood,
even the unwritten.
but most days I muddle in some place remote
from the light of the picture.
I wallow, lost in the waves of words
that have no meaning,
that have no girth.
I am tossed by repetition,
sapped of creativity,
and waiting for
a flash
to come
again.
It's those moments of brilliance that mke the slog worthwhile though - a bit like bringing up children, only the moment is usually happiness then.
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