MindWraith

There is something about
a blank canvas,
a blank paper, lump of mud
far horizons
that draws you
lets you dream.

To sink into
an ink blot, a letter,
a dimple on a clod of clay,
a swirl of color,
a music note across the waters
or a rising sculpture to the sky.
To spin stories that chart the stars and celestials
or twirl to the rhythm of the reeds.

To roam wide
and let flow
the well
deep within