Writing a Poem

A single stroke dispatches emptiness, in one ambitious line gives backbone to my limp attention. Rigid fingers tighten on the brush. The bristles slash again and incorruptible reality is neatly tailored to my artifice. Leaning on my arm, I glance behind me at the letters inching down the page. There's no return, no second chance. The brush no longer mediates between intention and accomplishment. It races on ahead of me, guided by the incidental pattern of its progress. Independent of endeavor, indifferent to what I am or what I hoped to be, it brushes my design aside and draws its own conclusions.