Personified (In Ezra)

Wriggling my way     across the page     I thrash about, lost by perspective and     challenged to     summon only     significant passions expressing clarity     of struggle. The knowing face of     immortality proffers     gracious wisdom from antiqued parchments to     reassert with     fervent hope more than just meter or instinct     until I find Ezra Pound in my     brain with a crayon     hacking away like a swashbuckler, killing out of     joy the weakest     tendencies of     gluttony: convention for the sake of     tradition. I hold my head in my     hands, lamenting my     fuzzy banality and those cherry lips pedantic whispering     tales of glory in     brutality most     vindictive without regard to purpose or     veracity. Your tome falls open as it     topples from my     ossified grasp; gravity's blank urge grumbles     until words blaze with     clarity reminding     journeys are more than simply driving to     destinations.