Marbled Vanity

I live my life in moderation so I can afford the extravagance of dawdling in dreams. The price of creativity is idle time spent longing for depth, with words in my hand and though there's nothing crucial to say my tongue craves the nectar of new syllables. A harlequin lexis of stimuli flirts and lingual vibrations are silenced by sentience provoking thoughts with kinetic spectrums of theories and visions that crowd and design patchworks of rhapsodic vers libre or rhyme, rhythm and rules. These manicured notions are inky memorials erected between perception, life and dreams. I am content to milk my senses for mottled shades of beauty, of thought, of empathy to polish the currents of impression funneled to my fingertips. I am content to hunt cadence and cacophony and to bleed my spirit for the color of life and yet, I find that I am a feeble foundation for verse, I can laugh only as much as the happiest soul, my anguish can dampen no more than an ocean I can only toil a lifetime and I live, so my worst suffering has been outdone by those who’ve died. It’s when I swallow the heart of the world and humanity converses with my minds eye that my words trickle to my fingers and find reason in the moment to be inspired, to be conceived to become a lost and found memoir of dreams, of passions, of darker hours and brighter days… The excesses of life are so much more interesting than my clichéd existence.