Is it necessary for an artist to know why he paints, or a ballerina to know why she is possessed by a passion to ballet? Need a nightingale know why she serenades the sleeping world or the moon understand why he is enraptured by the blue earth, around which he revolves day and night, yet never dares to embrace her for the fear they will collide and die?

There is no want in them to fathom the mystery of those passions that are beyond comprehension.

Then must a lowly writer such as I question why I write?

I know not.

And yet, when the night is starless and witchy, when all is lonesome like a solitary wolf weeping under the moon, when the world is so silent that I can hear the pencil moving against paper, I seek answers…

…to understand why of all the noble trades there are, of…

It is not my hand, 

but the ink that writes of you

nor is it my young imagination 

that begs to draw you

but the restless paintbrush 

that traces your silhouette.  

When I sing of you, 

know that my piano forces me to

and not because I have made you my muse – 

a pure object of my fancy I come to 

when I lack expression, 

for it is not so.