The Overflowing Pen

I write of paradox, the catalyst of mystery to flood the desiccated corpus of romance. I write of stark obsidian to dress the silver of the night. I write of wild things racing on the edge of everyday, creators of imagining, progenitors of lust and love and laughter at the far, expectant tomb. To write is to release a rare, pristine ejaculate of self churned out of dreaming, fostering a karma made of ages, built of old beginnings and the cosmic circus drawn around the instant now that is our prison, and our lustrous paradise. I write of kings and ragged men, of paramours and saints more dissolute, more brave than I who sounded all the bells within me, whispered that they flowed within my bloodstream, cried out upon their battlefields again, upon their crosses that no holy death could sanctify. And all of it is I. I write in borrowed words—a seizure set inside the impudence of my design to join the vast concentric vortex of creation, just to find an eidolon of truth, to sing with history a new reflection on the trek of humankind, and then with them united, close and throw another song upon the altar of repose. ~