A poet

He has become a poet recently. He could not believe it. The pen he had used all these years had only given words... and structure. Form and flow. Rhythm and rhyme. But the Evening whispers things. Cruel truths, only he can understand. 'You are not a writer!' she whispers in a current which almost deafens his spirit. 'Look at all you have accomplished. Your pen writes life, not imagined folly'. His soul departs from his body in an attempt to flee this truth but the evening grasps it by the fingers and smiles. She disappears and in the moments after... her voice in his ears. 'You are the flow of the universe. Be like those before. Be like the greats ones who knew no boundaries'. So he picks up his dagger and cuts open his finger. Dipping his quill into the blood he looks at the open air around him. As he writes on the wind... the world begins anew.