Clear-eyed she channeled the universe in the middle of the night.
Sometimes it took a special beat, a certain hypnotic twist of wrist,
when the matrix door cracked open; only then… she could begin.
Music, like manna, had to fall to her ears, loop her into ecstasy.
Feverishly and unconsciously each note turned into stars and scribbled nebulas;
whoever started the wheel rolling, she just kept it going.
If she thought at all, the process she rode, would let her fall.
White -outing her mind, she swayed, to let the letters play in the rain.
Mouth tilted to the sky, she swallowed a poem whole…until, out it flowed.
Not every composition held her kind of verse inside, or made her sigh.
Not every creative vessel, was her magic flute, her juicy fruit.
Not every sheet of music, uncovered her muse, and coaxed her into dance.