writing became stale,
my thoughts linger outward in a redundant and unskilled manner
in hesitant yet concise steps,
nothing but disgraceful sampling of the unattended entropy…

the inner equation is unfit
the variables tremble,
either there is no constant or the definition may be inaccurate
so the pursuit of an X proves fruitless
and it is more of a Y than anything else;

I,
a single letter to me
it is key to understanding…

You,
poetry seeks insight
there is a rhythm to follow, an elegant musicality
the incorporeal promise of beauty and excitement
as imagination unfolds at the very moment the eyelids drop –
a slap to the senses :
is there anything left for … ?