I had always contemplated the compulsion to write

And why the written thing takes life from inanimate

And why there was a writing "bug"

That discriminated in its bite

And caused the skin of the unintiated to crawl and tremble at the mention of pen to paper

And caused the uninitiated to flee from this insect as though it carried a plague

Yet this same bug initiates a would be writer to rush to apply salve to the  bite

To soothe the sting by nurturing the bite, ignoring the gross invasion of being bitten

The writer "feels" this new mass of risen, sore flesh and the emotion of it

This emotion that the writer feels is not the fleeting emotion of the neophyte

THAT emotion comes in a ripple from a rock skidded upon the face of a lack, leaving sorry ripples that disturb nothing, not even the one who felt it

The writer' s emotion comes on the back rise of a dark or joyous tide that crashes on the rock and foams and when  sliding back into the sea leaves a new born goddess in its wake

And the writer runs across the scorching sand to  embrace that muse and becomes tempered in the fire of  passionate expression and like the gilted husband of that new born, uses been as hammer and paper a anvil to hold that emotion in place for a time and beats and deforms the raw emotion into lyrics to a song that stirs the most deaf of the initiated and causes the writer to be deified  in a fashion that makes the writer become a magician that ecaptures and enchants time and time again into eternity

And this bug, this insect always crawls along its lowely path and it  hovers around the spell caster biting and nibbling and infecting until the writer once again waves the wand and enchants another person back into the web of dreams