You charm and tease me to my own chagrin
to the point where my mind is not my own,
and the thoughts therein have not ceased to spin
since the idea of you itself was sown.
So I call you Muse and let my head swell
with imaginative iterations
of your temptations, natured kiss-and-tell,
to be expressed as my inspirations.
As I am the artist and you my muse,
I behold your grand form to be captured
with the key, pen, or brush strokes I so choose,
but instead I find myself enraptured.
And when I lay prone to my obsession
I am the canvas for your expression.
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Life wears the acutely perceptive thin and ragged, to tattered fringes. It is difficult to feel in a place whose occupants appear primarily to feel very little at all -- aside from the feral, panic-inducing imposition and mediocrity of daily tedium. I feel as though these years have been but a process of slow goodbyes and casting off, the same as our births loosed us from maternal tethers, but more precipitously. Where do we go from here? We are the few tasked with the maddening preoccupation of progress.
So, sometimes I look to see what has been scrawled upon the cavern walls for the wayward to find. Of all the trite and tiresomely tepid tinsel tethered to those torpid others' celebratory trees, miserly mimicking brilliance, yours is a true and piercing icicle rife with natural refractivity, which shines most splendidly. Whether it is for that it is new, novel, kindred, or simply perfectly precise I am unable to disseminate well enough to distinguish.
If this is strange, it is only for that I felt something, which I assure you to be far stranger.
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