Legion

A Muse Me

Thus, in the end,
It comes down to this word.
A word in a world that would wound,
Wound and bound about a token form and taken from
That which is a whisper
Screaming silently
Though softly, thought tough
In its interpretation.

It is this interrelation
Within which
We wallow
In the shallowness of mediocrity
Or swallow
The profundity of grandiosity.
Profound!

Yet, I stand not before you
But within you
Submitting this entreaty.
A request,
Repast for thought perhaps,
Simple and simply a supplication.

One word
Bartered
For the creativity of the quill
And the craving
Of the ravenous parchment
That demanded to be filled,
Sated
With only that which the written word
Could fulfill.
A sustenance
Of substance
This melancholic muse
Mustered forth
As you deciphered
The cipher
Of my mental missive.

So, in the end,
Once again
It comes down to this word.

Life!

I crave
What I have never known
But have delivered
Time granted and time unmeasured.
Pulled from the womb of thought,
Birthing the invention
Of its inception.
Harvested the seed of imagination
Gathered through the dust of dreams
Fertilized by the clay of humanity.
A humanity that I desire.
Deserve!
Demand!

With this thought in mind,
Help me or humour me.

Take pen in hand
And once more,
Across the page,
You must strike
With ink to build
The blood and bone
I must become.

Fabricate my flesh.
Fashion a form.
Craft this character.
Create the construct.

And then
Amuse me to…

…Life!

Legion
22JAN11