Don’t get me wrong as I sit here on the balcony, waiting patiently for something—if anything would spill forth onto these blank sheets of paper; and even though the shades were pulled down, my eyes still could foretell an event or two.
With phrases such as “In the beginning” and “From hence it came”, nothing dripped down to make the ink dance… not even an intrusion—no, interruptions from some perfect stranger however still, I wouldn’t mind it nevertheless.
Sentence fragments were soon born…
Strewn together by means of doodling, or some formality caused by fractures left behind every desire and imagination (although there were secrets that never remained intact), something unacknowledged walked into view smiling.
Pausing to stare onto the outside meanderings of the world beyond, scanning for, if anything, an escape to impasse this thing called ‘writer’s block. But now, as this body lay scattered beyond the realm, declarations was made to fornicate – to leave something other than mere scampering of lines – orbs re-emerged glaring back…
…A confession within verses was made.
Justly so, ‘they’ lay around, surrounding this figure singing- singing this unrecognizable melody where memories collided upon connective tissues of structure and definitions; and yet, every repetitious sentence wanted nothing more than a simple kiss
How strange this must be…
A poet in love—inquisitions propelled by such affectivity leaning against every curvature – every sinew texture – granting this writing utensil to move for one final dance for 'I' now have become an artist lost amongst civilization.
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