• I sit here
    Alone.
    A breeze gently stirs at my back,
    Ruffling the papers on which I write.

    I brush a yellowed leaf
    Away
    That lightly floats down to the water
    Where a miniature wave disturbs the glassy surface.

    I watch the ripple that
    Lingers
    As if it wants me to realize something
    When suddenly, I am rewarded.

    Abrupt inspiration
    Enlightens
    My thoughts, and I proceed
    With effortless ease.

    However, inspiration is
    Fleeting.
    It is always fleeting.
    It comes in temporary temporal disregard.

    I try to quickly
    Record
    My thoughts, but they yearn for freedom
    And fly from me with no regret.

    So here I am left, in labored
    Despair
    Trying to progress. But
    This worldly effort causes me to realize that

    The little glade is
    Swirling
    Into a vibrant jumble of autumnal colors
    That begins to change before my eyes

    Into something utterly
    Dreadful.
    Shades of grey inhabit my surroundings
    Forming themselves into perfect squares.

    I find nothing perfect in
    Imperfection;
    These small, grey squares,
    This suffocating enclosure that bottles me up
    And reduces me to little more than nothing,

    But I refuse to include a period
    For such is not forever—