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An intimate disgrace, the fashion in which my inspiration to drive creativity evacuated shortly after you were excused. & when you’re not sure what your ranking is beyond the departure from the ship you savored, where are you to be stranded in the sea of thoughts and names, my oh-so-hopeless Magdalena?
A tugging from the anchor beckons you, “write write write, if only for the sake of writing every morning at 9 AM as sharp as you are in love.”
“And if I do, to whom shall it be dedicated?”
With no siren to accept the grace, to dive into your depths with assuring wonderment, why impregnate the work not yet prose? A sailor waited not prior to your pen’s touch; a sailor waits not now, for he stands stranded and strangled on the shores of self-deceit bearing the name, “your Magdalena, please come home.”
A tugging from the anchor beckons you, “write write write, if only for the sake of writing every morning at 9 AM as sharp as you are in love.”
“And if I do, to whom shall it be dedicated?”
With no siren to accept the grace, to dive into your depths with assuring wonderment, why impregnate the work not yet prose? A sailor waited not prior to your pen’s touch; a sailor waits not now, for he stands stranded and strangled on the shores of self-deceit bearing the name, “your Magdalena, please come home.”
Incurably scribing poetic dedications and lengthy acknowledgments with sorry aim to suffice our greatest works found lacking a substantial purpose undirected. Who’s to say a subliminally directed message renders something thought imperfect, perfect?
Lying in what you create by the bed and the tongue, I dedicate this to the “desperately seeking a muse” class of my fellow man. Dear you...
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