This is a place where stories are born.

They flow from deep crevices in the caves of our minds

And float into the air

Which is good-natured just like the instructors – 

We watch the raw ideas mingle above our heads,

Akin to lovers under the mistletoe,

We let them be destroyed and reborn, 

We bounce them back and forth

And shine them in different lights

And take them apart and see how they work

And learn their secrets – 

Learn them so well that we can put them back together when we’re done

We blend it all together into a thing strange to us

But beautiful, somehow,

To those who read it

And when we have finished

We sate our mouths

With salt and sugar and cream

Like the sovereigns of old

And then come back 

For more –

For more mayhem 

For more tangles of words

For more thickets of plot

For more rolling pastures of poetry

For more, for more

Because this is a place where stories are born