Scherzos and Nocturnes

Hackneyed breath of words and the clichés hit the wall, A stream of summoned nonsense bounces off of me like superstition, Benevolent limits of indulgence, on the other hand, - oh, well! The oeuvre of life, I live, leans towards the attraction, Sprinkled over with the droplets of avant-garde, and hedonism. But the intentions engender balance between born, and unborn, Between an eternal shadow of uncertainty, and a seeker Who is standing at the poetic juncture of scherzos and nocturnes, Unguided, eternally lost, in the timeless world of imagination, In the wonderful world of desires, dreams, and the best version of self. My prevalent muse resides in the realm of sins, Full of ardour, with a good measure of boundless torment, Experienced throughout the past and the present, In the midst of unrequited adolescence of love facing uncertainty As laurel leaves would face each other in a wreath For the glory, victory and power. But it’s not these that are sought after. It is love, she seeks, Until last dying breath. So, where does a painter start with painting? Perhaps in the realm where allusions are divided into sequences, Where olive branches evoke the logic, and reality is burned at the stake, Where melisma echoes throughout the Vox, as nothing more than a pastiche. Or who knows? I don’t. She doesn’t. We? Well, that’s another tale to be told.