Kazantzakis

I wish I could be there with you as you wrote

each and every sentence 

into your notebooks,

Sprawled out upon your bed

battling the voices in your head

Bleeding out like your pen

until there was nothing left to be said.

You write as you must have lived,

with agony and caution and precision

hidden within the wisdom.

A master weaver- 

you have sewn together the pieces

I have collected.

Homer Rilke Whitman Saramago

de Beauvoir Camus Kubrick 

Plath Fitzgerald.

You are the master and the missing piece. 

Did you have to try to perfect 

each phrase over and over again?

Did you doubt yourself,

like your poor reader does,

and wonder how to phrase 

the beating of your heart

or the rushing of your blood?

Or did it spill out of you

like water spills down the river?

Did it splash upon the page

Hitting the hands of a thirsty child

Hoping to retain just enough

For one drink?

I drink from the fountain of your struggle

As if it were a majestic lake

Formed by a thawed glacier

Magnificent but tragic

In its dazzling blue.

Yes, I wish I could be there with you-

And my lover too.