The story from my head


Part 70 of the 73-part series called "moon photos"

Does it pour out of me, like Athena?
or do I have to go looking for it among
the alleyways and open plains, the recesses
and sub-basements of things? or, even,
does it come to me like a starving
animal, feral, distrusting, but knowing
that its only chance of survival is
for someone like me, a kind-eyed giant,
to decide to take mercy? or is there
another way, one I’m not considering,
a secret door, a hidden passage, that
ideas take? is this one laughing, now,
at my mortal attempts to understand
that which I never could attempt to try?
is it mine, or am I its own creation?