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