THE SORCERER’S APPRENTICE
Laboring ceaselessly in some lonely garret,
Attempting to bring to life things of great merit,
Conjuring up images from out of thin air
That convey beauty, truth, and love; pain and despair.
Late into each night, nothing but toil and trouble,
Constructing palaces from out of the rubble.
Over a seething cauldron, stirring up potions,
Distilling the essence of human emotions.
Failing night after night, and yet, still keep trying,
Words, like fish on the shore, on the page lay dying.
But in rare moments, success is sometimes achieved.
Magically, words coalesce – a poem is conceived.