The potential one holds,

with just ink and paper

Is more than the science

between ice and water-vapour.

A power unimaginable 

to even those who dream.

The source of life,

and the emotions unseen. 

A solemn, solitary, scribbler.

His hand scratches at rough yellow paper.

Ink flowing ceaselessly onto the page

Abstract ideas diffuse seamlessly from the mind.

A unique art that only he possesses,

Mankind's skill, to withhold a secret.

The only constraint to his power,

Being that of his imagination.

Obsession with fiction ruins him,

Or so some compulsive people say.

Dreams are reality and truth is fiction.

A daunting prospect for men who believe.

The potential one holds,

with just ink and paper

Is more than the science

between ice and water-vapour.

A power unimaginable 

to even those who dream.

The source of life,

and the emotions unseen.