Like a coin, tossed by chance,

Two sides form an isochronal picture:

The poet in me stares through a porthole out to the greater expanse,

The words and the metaphors meld together into an ideal fixture—

Of thought on paper, they deplete the remaining remnants of the midnight oil.

The storyteller in me struggles with the prose:

Characters and Settings are welcomed graciously, but Plot remains my foil,

They stand about listlessly, waiting for their standing orders I suppose.

With a glare of irritation and an inpatient tap of the foot,

They await the unwritten chapter and the MacGuffin under the moonlight glow.

These stories and poems collide carelessly, covered in ideas and expressions like soot.

These things will be written in time, that I know.

But like a coin, my inspiration flips at the will of my mind,

Following a labyrinth of hallways as I open every door.

The poetry and the stories are slowly crafted as the words align,

And as I take steady steps toward the completion of my writing and my lore.

Photo by Chris Briggs on Unsplash