The sparkling resplendence of tarnished rumination, the thoughts of her cutting like blades bloodied and boiling with ether,
Like glittering gallows where we hang up the trills of lost trauma, banging on gongs and on pots and on pans, crashing through the headspace with decadent and sumptuous thrilling complication,
His hands a scribbling scribe that wallows and wails in the pale of the night, while following the foe of non-sleep fain all fright and find the delight,
His description and usage remaining elusive of how lovely her feature, how delicate her sentience a well-crafted creature, his prose turned to poem and poem to epic and epic to clinging epiphytes of language, not lulling and forever becoming more than that which he saw there upon the gravel and crunching sounding floor,
For the floor of his mind is like trudging over hot coals allowing the pain of the flame to devour the pain of not knowing what comes next, trying for timeless metaphors that appear naked and **** without garment or raiment and such is the payment of prose,
Quivering quills of peacocks long forgot now scrawled on the parchment, the ink of jet black is spilt and flows over the page and lost all the words like the shore on the sand erasing returning the gift of creation back to its rightful owner,
Now pondering the omen and hating himself for his tragic mistake his story lost forever for he will never remake or rebuild that amazing love letter, whipped to the gutter,
Before his tongue stutter his chest starts to flutter, now pick up that instrument of poetry and grow without wilting and disseminate what you create,
For to get so far and fail and try again then you are an artist, rewriting what was heard, even though it is blurred with the fading memory, and that is the identity of art.