I adore the war in your words,
I seek the alliteration,
Clusters of spectacles,
While you sit there wasting.
An image painted with a translucent touch,
Movement in a dimension I can never muck,
Yet the mosaic of your life comes only in black and white,
A hint of grey-scale, then out goes the lantern light.
You are poor in physical dimension,
But rich in mental dilation,
As you carry this burden you are offered no solace,
A troubled writer just finding his place,
I am just assembling the facts but there is no case,
This unseen talent will be a statue,