I feel the first slippery
                    silken drops of poetry rise
                     to spill from the pen-tip:
                  How to catch them perfectly, in
                   which spine-stitched notebook,
                 creamy satin pages yet unsullied?
              The torrent presses, escapes, warm, wet
             ink spills, runs through fingers grasping,
                visions glitter in soft jewel colors
           a message thumps in tick tock staccato, pulse
             racing now thickening warm verse slipping
                    onto the damp page, elastic
                        slick with portent,
                          dry soon as the
                           moment surely
                               fades

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