Words formed in silence,

not yet tangible.

Transformed by time and motion into

voice, shape, and meaning.

Simple words, simple in comphrehension,

moving imperceptibly from

shadow into substance.

And from this womb

of subdued contemplation

evolves the written word.

Born of solitude,

now set free

to whisper, roar, and rhyme

across the page.

The moment of birth

giving me life.

What I strive for in my head,

is reaching my hand.

Words flowing line after line,

gestation to creation

that beginning is all to me.

Flights of fancy,

fact or fiction,

unimpeded, rush from me,

to stand alone

all ties severed.

The life they breathe

is now their own.