The one time that my brush has composed the words to a piece of free verse.
Pure, pristine innocence.
And soon sucked into a stained, spiraling vortex.
Of avarice and temptation. Lust. Greed. Gluttony.
Jealousy. Anger. Doubt. Anxiety. Negativity.
Impatience. Sloth. Conceit. Fear. Withdrawal. Denial. Falsehoods.
Ephemeral pursuits. Vice.
The preponderance of the I.
A myriad inveigling hues of the horned sorcerer.
A relentless whorl.
Till the very end.
And then, a reversal, a revertal, a return to the origin.