Inspiration

I can hear it like

a gentle swerve

of cold wind

sweeping along the side of the house.

I like the shadows

cast from the books leaning

on the nightstand.

There isn't a voice

from the authors;

just a scratching sound

of interests uninitiated-

Mine.

And to me the novel stays closed

in my hands. Bookmarks lost

in the binding of life

not imitating art.

On a single piece of paper

the world can lay flat,

and from one corner to the other

someone could be listening,

and someone

could be storytelling.

Its all in invisible ink

written in the womb.

Literature is never reborn

but is constantly reinventing itself

in audible sounds-

like the scratching

and meddling clamor

of a quiet evening

pushing against

the side of the house.