To paraphrase something I read recently: There is no substitute for the perfect word. The right word does not suffice. Thus, a poem is never finished, merely abandoned.
As I grow, I try to write and express things in various ways. My latest attempt is below.
Write everything like it is your Magnum Opus
A canvas, abstractly concrete in glade of my dreams.
Stark , white. Like Mab on Mid Summer’s Eve
Thoughts and expression Coalesced,
Resplendent like height of summers fecundity
My imagination, a portal within these pallium halls.
Porcelain pylons stand guard over my Palette.
Scarlet, with words. I paint
My thoughts, a cavalcade of ideate sentences
My personality, ambulates betwixt parentheses
My soul, I place upon a pedestal of words.
The most austere of glances, sets it alight.
In the throes of passion, I watch as it burns.
I leave my passing ,as naught but smoldering embers on a page.
I was here. I was alive. To live, love, laugh and hate.
Energy harnessed to aesthetically permutate.
Within this canvas, upon these pages
I carve my effigy. I immortalise myself here.
With every movement of my wrist,
With every palpitating beat of my art.
Life, now has meaning.