The camera captures skin and bone and vein,
But misses the spark that's dancing in the brain.
These fingers rest, so quiet and so slight,
Yet they are conduits for a storm of light.
One touch can wake a world upon the screen,
Or paint a landscape that has never been.
I feel the hum beneath the surface glow,
A current only thunder-seekers know.
When ink meets paper or the keys are pressed,
The lightning in my soul is put to test.
I do not merely write; I weave the bolt,
Giving the weary heart a sudden jolt.
To hold the power of the crashing sky,
And keep it steady while the hours fly.
These hands can heal or they can strike a blow,
Dictating where the silver currents flow.
Between the lines of prose and poetry,
The static rise is clear for all to see.
A girl of flesh, a queen of electric fire,
Tuning the world like a golden lyre.