Inspired by wick-bred flame
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and the loss of mundane
means by which storms are tame.
My hand finds it sought vein
where rivers bleed into the sea
of written prose & poem
home to those deviant and rare
whose thoughts expose and compare
the variations of cost and fee
that accumulate in life’s roam.
As each wave becomes written
and the breeze becomes smitten
by the imagination of a writer that is I,
watch the stars twinkle away
into a night bluish grey
as the cords of my wick blacken and die.
Art is addicting, an addict am I,
truth is I, the truth am I, the truth a lie!