I struggle to breathe life into lines,

The pen heavy with stagnation,

Each stroke a weary sigh.

Abruptly it leaps from my grip,

Spins and twirls, then vaults off the desk.

Once ink, my writing becomes threads of gold,

Enfolding me in their fraying grasp,

Caressing my ear, pouring their secrets,

navigating me like the North star.

The gold threads lift me up,

Intertwined with the creases of my arms,

Surging through my skin.

Light, bright and gleaming, radiates from me,

My fingertips cast light,

Heart bursts as a pulsar, my soul stardust.

But the light sputters out,

And I plunge back to my desk.

The pen descends to my hand,

And I write.