The year advances and a voice
Inside is saying ’be creative’.
I obey.
The urge to make and do
Among the oldest of Man’s drives.
Eat, sleep, multiply, be safe, create.
Feather your nest for warmth
But choose colour.
Paint your cave with beasts.
Carve the rocks.
Storyteller's muse must be as old
But leaves no trace.
Inside the silence
A tale is forming,
And I would hear.
If only my hands would stop
And let me listen.
*********
The creation bug appears to have trapped me in three dimensions, temporarily. Words are flowing less freely than usual.
