I Speak, but ne’er say a word.

 

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


Nebula


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.

Ciao!

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