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Faul is as faul does
I crave the creativity of imagination
Conceiving an idea that excites the idle soul
To toil it for value and purpose
As Aristotle intended it to be.
But waiting for the time to do
Limits the glory of accomplishment
As the idea rots in an imagined grime.
But to strike beyond this negligence of my apparent talent
Could my purpose come to fruition
And creativeness oozes its milk and honey.
Let me seek the sage in my troubled soul
To defeat the self-inflicting inquisitor
Plaguing the catalyst of my destiny to prosper.
Copyright ©
Nicole Seefeld
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