For turning new ground.
There are no guides or signposts,
To help one get around.
There are no learned courses,
Instructions so profound.
No help, waiting in the wings,
Just in time, to be found.
Just risky business,
As is the creator’s trade.
Stirring up controversy,
With each new batch that’s made.
Pushing thoughts and ideas to the edge,
To such a risky place.
They may fall off and be lost,
To the shadowy edge of time and space.
As if one day, you told your mind,
Be Gone! Erase!
And, what you worked so hard to create,
Vanished without a trace.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull