The teeming thoughts.
The cavalcade of words,
Both old and new.
That, which brings me back to life anew.
The vibrant imagination.
The kaleidoscopical memory.
The artistic renditions.
That’s awarded to but few.
The waif, in this case,
The writing and the muse.
The lore, the telling, the cure.
That desperation profuse.
The simplicity. The awe.
The determination. The jigsaw.
The striking of just the right cords.
That music. Listen, dear, that’s the cue.
The perceptions. Love and geniality.
The drumming, thumping, parading reality.
Despite despair; nothing being new.
That, which comes from within, is but You.