She begins,
with shallow respirations,
panting in time,
patterning her senses
into competitions of emotion,
chasing after
the perfect birth.

She ascends,
down into tornadoes,
cascading through tunnels,
cycling words blend,
sending out spirals,
contained within rainbows,
of artistic birth.

She expires,
obliterating Nirvana,
hushing her overflow,
relaxing her mind’s glow,
reeling in fragments,
she stretches with freedom,
of writer's birth.

Erin Moen
3/9/02
Copyright 2003 ©