I write for
The simple complexity
Of this power that is

I write for
The tasty travel that
That eludes me
Without the
Delicious massacre of
This mind
That I get to tease,
Taunt, question
And cajole into an understanding.

I write for
The tepid nuances
That I get to
Marinate, stir,
And simmer into a
Boiling gravy of Madness
Seasoned by me alone.

I write
Because only I can question.
And only I command
The trepidus pikes
That crash collide and burn
Into intoxicating ash of
Liquid Thought.
So sinfully pure,
Untamed and Silver true,
That I can only but give in.

I write,
Because it is
Then that I realise
I Am bigger
much bigger
than any thought
I Think.
So present
So flighty
And forever alive.

I write
Because I love.
And it is through
The echoes of my
Misty mind
That I yearn,
And willfully surrender
To the beautiful chaos within.



2 thoughts on “Realism

  1. I respond
    In earnest to pleasure
    Gained from stumbling over a chest
    of treasures unseemly
    Deep as the darkness they arise from
    Shine forth and enter this arena
    of wit and words and alchemy
    I write from memory
    That a twist of fate
    has brought me

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