You arrive like a dream,
sudden and spontaneous,
painting yourself from an array of thoughts.
Your strokes are easy and unconscious.
You become a narrator, stories spilling
out of your palette
like fountains of color,
spreading across the canvas in flourishes
until there is a leaflet of paper left.
And like a jolt that steals one
from the comfort of sleep,
you vanish, asking to be found
by the writer
in words of his own.