It does not ask for permission, It does not wait for the spark. It is the fire that starts without friction, A lantern invented in the dark. You ask how I write of a heartbreak My own chest has never known? How I map out the shivers and the ache Of a seed that was never sown? Because the mind is a frantic forest, Where the impossible runs on four legs. It gathers the storms that I haven't weathered And hatches the unlaid eggs. It is a beast that leaps every fence, A dreamer that refuses to cling. It makes no logical, lived-in sense But imagination is a wild thing.