The Birth

I was born of heartache,

the timeless tug of Erato

pulling mind and soul

to pieces like a supernova

of burning orange and yellow

sunset light

like the colorful explosion

of Rothko giving birth

to a cousin, a painting

of vivid fiery life,

and I stretched arms of words

and let out a cry of imagery,

coursing ink like blood

between the spaces in the page

that hold my bones,

my poetic existence.