Ironic! â€¦ what muse this is to find, that as I write, I am indeed a â€œwriter.â€
For even now the classic allegations begin to form around me.
Sparks of inspiration swirl like snow in a winterâ€™s wind,
Landing in all places, except where I need them.
Hours spent staring at my canvas, a painter struggling for sight,
yet I am armed with only a pen.
And the dark future lies before me, grey and brooding,
as my words consume the pastâ€¦ what was, what was not, what canâ€™t be...
A collection of romances, full of fondness, yet all but soon forgotten.
For destine I am to walk alone, and so I raise my cup,
Full of confidence that bewitches the tongue of men,
leaving me here, on this park benchâ€¦ to join my forefathers.
Traveling the pages of history! In every school, in every state, in every civilized world.
And yet still, a feat only obtainable in death.
So here I sitâ€¦writing.
Of songs never sang, thoughts never shared, loves neverlastingâ€¦
A bleak world, bleak but full, a life of strange events and curious memoriesâ€¦
â€¦ a life of source material.