Many have asked whence flow these words; meat of muther, I truly do not know. Prose to the writer is often catharsis of innermost being. Like worm to butterfly, we thrive on wingèd freedom of truth; creating beauty of matter once discarded, daring dream with audacity of hope amid’ trials of despair.
’Tis often all one can do to weep as mere observer at myst’ry seduced of Quill; grey feather having become extension of one’s palm! Aye, with temperance heedless warning, beguiling ink would transcribe dominant mistress of Kama, languidly èn vogue, fearfully held ’thin tremulous grasp! As angel swiftly fallen, knowing all matters once hushed at sub rosa, rendering imagery select – wreathing, breathing ’to papyrus a soul staining clot.
And so it is, the Quill takes hold of Poe, and man within becomes transformed, channeled; emoting strange utterance of antediluvian ode – leaving one deeply drained, visibly shaken! Moreover with fever for Valentine lover, losing faith I’d find self blush… craving…. more…..
’ Times consumed of darkness within chasm, I’d wish myself accursèd of dire conviction! I have prayed to a God twisting knot’ – either strip from tormented mind this prose of nuance, or choose rather take my very life! For shame, thrice have I attempted to exit stage by own hand, yet thrice failed in lifeline. Perhaps there be unfinished scripting – or opus granted noose.
’ Sense preeminence of many dimension rippling through tempered vein. Hollows wherein I find ’self daring upturn well – ahh’ spill its bloody ink! Oozing unto spotted robe no more! Having suffered lamentation, the Quill would pirouette in turn o’ phrase alighting so… seducing liquid Lyr!
Ohh’ the Muse! Indeed, sensation incorporeal when the lover allows embodiment; come one flesh within her majesty! So many letters yet unwrit’ melodies unstrung. I comprehend her movement – then again – do not. Enticing Song of Solomon, threshing scripture, wholly, found, within each breath but lost! How she fascinates with nuance… inflection born of elegance…….
Residing unfathomable within, she’s neither male nor female, husband nor wife. ’ Highness penetrates with light, whereas Quill permeates ’ darkness. Yet, she is he, and he is she… just as they are we…. for when such sound….. these voice through me!
I remain for all intent, mere servant at humility’s gate. Simple scribe both humbled and haunted by stirring of spirit. Writing as one ill afflicted, reverently wading to’ proverbial Bethesda!
’Pon faceless grains of hourglass, emerging nude in flowing sands. Of truth, in love I am, though yet to consummate her wonder! She may ne’er come to know just how I pine for dunes – seeding Hope for Sumner Storm, weaving through the Poet’s loom!
Yea, I long for echo of her sweetly trill… graceful smile and play on words…. trace of moonlight….. I succumb to milkèd lure……
I have seen a vision, ’las have dreamed a dream! Erect as one righteously accused; forgivably unforgiven. Verily, plundered with bloodthirst abandon, having devoured ’bidden fruit! Held of own free will since very eve’ in tasting…
Inspiration defined by moments afore
To breathlessness aft’!
I shall continue to speak her truth, so long as she will it. Should one loosen sacred bind – clasp shut celestial whisp’ring – ’haps then shall I cease shudder heaving sigh – resounding cries of madmen lost in desert wilds… wherein I find ’self shoeless…. and very much alone.
Yea, should romance e’er ebb its flow… one may ’ time breathe and might yet stir…. silent speak as I would write….. for such emote…… and ink….… no more.