A Writer's Prayer

[blythe025]

 Let the words curl up
in side my head, let them make a nest
of memories, snuggle up against
my closet of secrets and doubts, or perhaps
let them crawl into the chambers
of my heart, let them pay homage
to every loving beat. But do not let them
become complacent. Oh, please, oh, please
don’t let them become idle, comfortable
as they are in the cradle of my daydreams.
Let them come running down the tip of my pen;
let them paint the white of the page black
in a volley ball game of wit; let these words
frolic and flirt and couple with each other
in an orgy of chaotic creation; let them wake me
in the deep night, force me to seek the desk
and see the table lamp to burning; let my fingers
grow weary and ache, but do not let them still,
as I try to keep pace with the words so vast in number,
they are as thick as an army of ants turning the hillside black,
until at last I can do no more than collapse,
my mind and heart emptied and echoing as shells,
and having given all of me there was to give,
let me fall into peaceful blank sleep
until the words come to play again.