inspiration

so delicate
yet so used
so abundant
until it's gone
we take for granted
until we break it.
do we abuse it
or is it part of time?
it is suspended in a moment
like a ribbon spun around a spool?
that we latch onto
connected on our typewriter
and unraveled
punching out our ideas
using it as our ink; our fuel
completely undifferentiated
yet pulled, unraveled and matured
until it stops.

yet we move on through time
waiting for our next ribbon.

like the writer
waiting for his next character
to form in his mind
like the actress
who will play it.