Made malleable in flaming forges of the mind,
words take their shape –
grasped by the tongs of form and pummeled
by the hammer of imagination –
they bend submissive to our will
upon the anvils of our art.
Or so we like to think.
At other times, when latent poems appear
to form themselves, unasked,
and neural sparks fly far and high,
there is no doubt:
it is the words that shape the mind,
and we are but the anvils.
