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They speak to me in many voices.
Their forms shift like the puppet tides of a lunar goddess.
“Write,’ they say.
“Paint the world in words.”
And, I, without a story to tell
sit mute,
while they persist in their instruction.
Do you know what it is to write?
These aren’t just words on paper.
Each letter is a breath,
each word a sigh,
each sentence a heartbeat closer to the center of my soul.
Would you show the world your soul?
I can’t write just to write.
The words must emanate from my psyche.
Otherwise, it is all just chaotic nonsense dancing on a page.

Antonio Canova's Psyche and Cupid