I am a writer,
     but, funny thing is, I am
grasping for words, sucking empty air
through a straw removed from source
of liquid inspiration,
     wordless.

     I am an artist,
     but, funny thing is, I am
scouring for images in soul well
run dry, greyed and molded now,
lacking laughter, light and love,
     colorless.

     I am a healer,
     but, funny thing is, I am 
ill, in excruciating pain,
medicine cabinet missing
salve, remedy I need most,
     helpless.

     I am a woman of faith,
     but, funny thing is, I am
a river that refuses to run,
not able to let it go,
let life spirit flow through me,
     motionless.

     I am a cartographer,
     but, funny thing is, I am
searching for a way beyond and through,
lost as I am here among
torn bits of my parchment map,
     directionless.

     I am but a paradox,
     but, funny thing is, I am
sifting contradiction, shaking dust
of complexity, to mine
nuggets of simplicity,
     hopeful.

     I am but an empty slate,
     but, funny thing is, I am
filled with the deep knowledge of spirit
and certain of vast circles
of meaning rippling outward,
     faithful.

     I am but a light snuffed out,
     but, funny thing is, I am
bright with love here in the dark, willing
to take another step, then
leap across the canyon,
     joyful.