Painted words

The skies filled my head with a thousand words,

pinpricks of ink dotted the invisible lines

filling them with the finest of art

channeled tales from beyond.

They had no name,

those who whispered their secrets to me

in the deepest realms of sleep I wandered

with quill in hand and a pot of color

as dark as the midnight skies,

I wrote as the eyes remained closed

and locked in the world where everything spun

and nothing much seemed to make sense,

just ancient markings on parchment

stacked in random disarray

I sorted through so many pages

knowing that somewhere within

the secrets lay.

I gathered them in my mind,

mixing them like flour and salt

and yeast to rise them higher

hoping the truth would surface

and lay like cream on the top of the jar,

yet all that remained were foreign tongued symbols,

marked with some importance

in a fiery red mark like the dying sun on a horizon.

I closed my eyes as the pen began to stir,

as it swirled across the waiting cloud

I began to understand,

it wasn’t the words that were so important,

but the invisible thought between the spaces

where creativity remain waiting for exploring,

and a sign to mark as my own,

all my heart ever wanted or dreamed

was sitting there in plain view,

words that were always waiting to be made,

on pages that could only live

if I were to give a part of me.

 

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