That Stunning Mystery

Staring at a blank page.
The pen is ready,
sitting on "G' waiting of "O".
My head is spinning,
trying to chart a path through
my cluttered thoughts.
 
Trying to spin poetry from  
threads of thought,
weave words together
into some form of seamless cloth
with pleasing patterns
that evoke sounds of music.
 
Something from nothing is the result
of the dreamer's disease.
Syllables in a word soup and salad
topped with a cream sauce  
and seasoned to taste.
 
A wastepaper basket full
of waded up bad ideas,
fodder for future poems.
Writing while feeling I know nothing,
but willing to talk about it.
Asking all the important questions
without having any answers at all.
Isn't that pretty much our life?
We live chasing rainbows
and grasping for the wind
as we live that stunning mystery?