there comes
a singular moment
when writing where
all the incidental
silken threads
snap taut and
the entire tale
becomes a fully
functional world

it feels like
skating across a
frozen lake as
the fissures race
nipping your heels
random decisions
unveil a tapestry
and everything
finally
makes sense

not every story
is fortunate enough
to find the horizon
leaving a fool
to carefully examine
each corpse to find
the hidden gold
rotting in the sun
patchwork scenes
or scraps of plot
which will work
its way into another

i don’t try to
control the words
just gently nudge
them toward the goal
slowly massaging
the chaos into a
steady beam of light
each photon flowing
toward the inevitable
as i patiently await
it all coming together