I was to supposed to write of the Thunderstorm. High winds. Pouring rain. Uprooted trees. Burning wood. A terribly terrific piece. But, I let the words float on. Drowning in a sea of unwritten dreams.
I was supposed to write of the Dancing Flame. Rocking embers. Glowing rhythm. Sweet cinder. Smoking desires. A horrifyingly honest part. But, I let the words smolder into ash. Going down in an arsonist's dream.
But mania, oh mania. Writing everything about nothing. But me, oh me. Writing nothing about anything.