Page 40 - The First Letter To My Lady.

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A U G U S T 2 0 2 1

“If only I were a professional author.”

I would spend all my wordy trade to your service, weaving

fiction that echoed thematic bonds pronouncing your

striking demeanor, with impeccable articulation. Letters

that‘d chiseled our soul. But by misfortune, or by mendacity,

I’m far from it, far from that soul-searching expression, far

from that refined authoring. Rather just a self-important

quicksand of verbose narratives. Just magniloquent swindles

of a posturing façade. A blathering bombast.

Minuscule chapters were all I could muster. And even doing

them, I stuttered more often than I could digest. Stop-

gapped with writer’s block more often than I could

unabashedly bear to.

“It rained the whole day, the 20th.” Talking about it chokes

me. The serendipity of that weatherly happenstance. Being

stranded in the muck & the mire, wadding along.

I would write more, but I’m overcome with…