Kopfkino

Sometimes, I wish I was Michelangelo.  I wish I could see the angel, Before I set her free from the stone,  My mind. But alas, I am no sculptor nor painter. Us writers, we are magicians, mages and warlocks. Conjuring words from thin air, Stringing them together as we go. Sometimes,  I wish I could peek at her tender hands through the uncut rock. So I may chip away stone day and night to carve them to perfection. But, I possess no hammer, chisel nor rake. Sounds trapped in letters. Letters stitched to form words. Words which I must now weave, Into a warm winter blanket that shall not exist in the real world. The real world.. where it's cold. Ah yes. Words. They are the only tools I wield. How do I ever see my creation like Michelangelo saw his angels, When I am being asked to embrace her, Before I pour life to her very inception? - P.S