I'm not a poet.
But I still drip with translucent teal envy, twitching,
for the words of music, the song of speech
captured by the deft hands of a philosopher and by the gentle soul of a genius.
Finding in them artists, unmistakable talents.
Finding in them a contagious desire, a tangible want, an absolute need: to create new meanings out of words rather than to simply rearrange old ones.
Yet, here I sit.
The only thing I can do, it seems,
is be dramatic.
But it is the struggle of every writer,
edging towards metaphorical.