Ghost Writers

God coalesces galaxies
from the silence
in schools of suns 
swirling through the deep.
Worlds bathe in the glow,
cooling molten to solid,
aching toward consciousness.

Life crawls from primordial soup
with eyes lusting for light,
ears burning for rhythm,
hands groping to sculpt
as they were sculpted
from the clay.

Poets give voice to the heart
through the quill,
in words composed
with form and meter,
rhythm and rhyme.
Verses live and breathe
within and between us,
but crumble flat upon the page
when standing on their own.

Our poems are ghosts
of the First Poem --
art begetting art
through a longing
imbued in the ooze
from the Beginning.
The poet reaches forever
for a clean sheet of paper,
dips quill into ink,
and begins again.

Scott Speck
09/03/99