I endeavor to paint the picture,

but the words won’t come out right. 

Looking to the sky for inspiration, 

I am blinded by the light, 

And each word I seek to inscribe 

Upon this scape whereon I write,

Each word disappears up and away

And vanishes from sight. 

I hold this steel pen in my steel hand,

High above the tepid white,

And watch as sweat and blood drip from my brow

And land upon the tepid white,

Swirling together in a kind of dance

That itself verges on a fight.

The swirl turns about this way and that

Till all that fills my sight

Are a thousand unspoken words 

That light up the sky in flight,

Soaring through the colored scape,

Turning the tepid white

Into the painting for which no words

I had been able to once write.