Figmentation

I am not really a storyteller of sorts, 

I tend to let my mind wander too far; too often. 

It’s very hard for me to keep things concise. 

A magic spell here, a murder tale there, 

a romance under moonlight, a forlorn socialite, 

the boughs of trees howling over torrential rains; 

the agony and the ecstasy of a torrid affair. 

Somewhere within all these scenarios 

I plot and scheme my own incoherence, 

like the reflection of a blazing sky  

burning upon an idle lake,  

rippled endlessly by autumn leaves; 

like those timid butterflies, so restless, 

so disquiet within my chest, 

in each breath, looking for a way out; 

impatient in every way I can appear 

to tell you how much I adore 

this fleeting moment I have with you. 

If only my imagination could manifest 

even a pale imitation of our conversations, 

I would have whisked you off to our Neverland, 

safe between the pages of yesteryears. 

But all these make-believe fantasies of sordid mind, 

with all their plot armors and polished links, 

leave me at the mercy of my ineptitude; 

so pathetic, so cruel. 

Now I sit stoic against an empty page, 

pretending to fill it with an empty world, 

with shallow words and hollow desires, 

before I discard them and start all over again.