I need a vacation.

Maybe a trip to Italy.

I gotta revitalize.

Maybe, Pompeii.

I am feeling starved of my vim and vigor.
My words are lukewarm.

There is only one option:
rekindling my virility.

I could vivify myself vicariously:
the sensuality of the city's verve,
all the daily livings of people,
venerated in an intense blaze;
might make me vivacious again.

Input daily routine.
Output socially valued norms.

My vivid, vermillion passion
has been layered with ashes.

I am desperate for veracity.
Did my igneous, poetic life temper
to an obsidian verse?

The beat in my heart
has felt industrialized,
monotonous,
a steady assembly line of chaste gray;
a vexing variance of my vitals.
Revive me: my virtuosity
will ventilate me with
venereal voraciousness.

What is left to me,
a choice of perspective:
a plunge in to the devouring,
a dive in to the radiant;
both, a swim through a viscous sea of wildfire
in Mount Vesuvius.