Imagination travels in a black carriage
with tightened reins.
It finds new cracks in the table,
hovers over the floor, and crash-lands
in a lake of ink.
Imagination is wilder than a runaway fire,
greater than all utopias,
and the elder sister of all religions.
Imagination is yes, yes, yes—never no, no, no.
It is a serpent ever-growing,
shedding its paper skin across the tables.
Imagination is the opposite of a poisoned expectation,
seeping into us through generations.
Imagination is the joy of being an outsider.
Imagination is the child in its purest form.
