THE ALCHEMY OF WRITING:

At some point ideas swell like gravid fruit
upon the black-green vines of memory,
ripening beneath the heliacal eye of the sun,
until their pulp submits to secret fermentations,
becoming psycho-social vinum for the soul.

Ink then slowly thrums: a low, Vulcan pulse,
threading through the lead-lined cauldrons
through wax-sealed vellum folios of memory
as the Spirit is boiled down to necessity.

In the hush of ether-charged air,
unscripted alchemies unfold:
literary marigolds of metaphor
push through cracked arcane jars,
alembics smolder with the faint smoke
of unspoken thought, and as silence splits
at its seams, first consonants wake.

When the astral keys turn just so—
of the hermetic vessel—petals of idiom unfurl,
and creation slips the fetters of its former bounds:
Ink runs free and thought transmutates:
base lead of unformed fancy into the bright gold of perfected verse,
and the musica mundana, that ancient cosmic harmony long stilled,
finds tongue at last, breathes into the world again.