The most lovely lyrical lines of witty and resonate rhythm I envision are wind-stole and neuron-bounced before paper comes into play.
Fingers and letters are in the way of the emotive concepts I try to ply as a trade and ready-made convey.
Ready-made I say for similarities of sound are found prefabricated in the fabulous forms of language.
Music awakens which leaves me shaken then vacates the hollows of head w/out inscription, my guestbook unsigned by the best visitors.
Sniff, see, taste taint, frosted air on skin, cracking a neck-bone: these are mild channels.
Higher frequencies rare tuned to come through clear sometimes, the best times, and can't be recorded by one so used to bruised reality's misuse.
Does our universe ever give a muse for man to choose the subject of?
We receive visions matter won't envision or sequences physics don't hold.
My favorite things are bubble-ephemeral, fizzy carbonation in syrupy water, what turns flat and soon tasteless.
I wish I could produce them to [pass along / have forever].