My poetry is thought unbridled.
It exists to exist and is simply nothing more.
I, the speaker rare, write thoughts when I dare,
before they, streaking by, are never to be reminisced.
The gods of my words strike as lightning, quick and strong,
leaving me stunned, thunderous resound within my mind,
but these titans of colossus thought are too strong to be snared and restrained
Then fate would have it, with grace they do appear but...
the sylphs are marred by the scars of these glyphs.
And so, I'm left with the mortal drabble,
the fragments of a various whole.
They exist as I exist and are simply nothing more.