The story teller writes
For a naked character
On a bare stage.
The one character,
One line play.
Profound, all encompassing;
A brief run,
But a blockbuster
With opening nights
In all the capital cities.

The visualist
Could use one brush stroke,
One lump of unmolded clay,
An unchiseled stone,
Weathered driftwood
Or a piece of glass
To display in the great museums
For our interpretation
Of the exposed truth.

One note could orchestrate
On string, wind or skin,
And the composition would be complete.
The maestro could bow and walk;
No encore could repeat.

I want one line of verse
To embelish my yearnings;
To explain the cosmos,
The meaning and crux
Of this place,
Including us.

once you learn that life is but a game you see no reason not to embelish its thin facade. speak truth into the matter by revealing the the blatant lie that is comformity of the mind. be free to embelish the catalyst of life, the free will of creation itself; a perfect being dancing like a maniac to its own music

Adorned on self, it hangs like wind
on the breeze statically woven on
form. Embroider of linguistic thoughts,
all in notions that are enriched but still
never totally fallen on its emotion.

Enhancing what was just embellished
reflections, now seen in the movement
of a yearning to expel but never descended.
just  passive in  the needing of its expulsion.

Ornaments that hang on my tongue, kept
in staled rejection. I only want to garnish
your yearning with what I'm trying to
embellish with these spoken words.

Unseen specters, they'll attack.
Rusted hooks and dull razors as hands, their hunger bleeds through time and space to gnaw at me on this skyscraper's jagged crown.

Instinct prevails, lioness intercedes.
Eyelashes grow older, making way for past to recede.
Huntress will shoot, ambiguous leniency grips harder than flesh.
Wardrobe beckons with open arms, and through esoteric self-combustions, my human suit morphs into hardened armor.

Forgotten vaults open once more, as ghouls roam the crowded intersections of the infinite as neurotransmisions.
****** hatchet made of nails in hand, uniquely hideous. Main mechanism of defense and potent display of skill.

Unmatched. Pieces of half-eaten livers steal the traction off my legs.
Damp, anchored shoes pick away at my frail and wilting compass.
Blank faces embelish the night's tapestry as pupils widen their radars for tutelage.

Now I'm lost.
But the frenzy-filled cleansing continues nonetheless.