A writer tends to think,
And imagine romance
Even amidst a sordid circumstance
That doesn’t support drama or magic.
Beans of imagination sprout
Despite lack of nurturing
And water,
Turning shades of grey and black
Into flowers and cups of velvet wine,
As if these writers, they know
A secret spell
That hides behind mundanities
And dirty streets
That the rest of us walk on,
Spit on, fight on.
The secret spell that only they know,
And protect, like members of ancient cults do
With their secret hierarchies and
Their secret rules—
No one knows the mind
Of a writer; not even he, himself.
It’s like a box of matchsticks
Oriented the opposite way,
So that they never burn and die,
And all they get to see
Is a glimmer of the real world
Whenever the matchbox slides
Open.
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