Write I Must

I want to write but words fail me.

Let's take a moment and consider my options.
Make that a few moments.

I could mull over existence and her many virtues.
Spin a yarn of passionate unromance that would
wind its way into your next conversation with me.

Maybe my last fall from grace would appetise your attention.
The hundreds that preceded would do just as well.

An ode to accomplishment, an elegy to desire,
a sonnet to anarchy or a thesis on the art of shoveling.

I could demystify the irreverence of the irrelevant.
Or the solitude of the destitute.

Dwelling on basic courtesies might easily be
swapped with a lesson in gratitude. Maybe fortitude.

The lusts of a rising phoenix could well be juxtaposed
with the cries of a lost chihuahua mistaken for a wild hare.

The storming of the Bastille or the Earl Grey
that never made it to the tea party.

The roving libido of the French premier could hold its own
to the modest ambitions of second coming
of the father of the world's largest democracy.

Maybe a concoction of lofty language
laced with a symphony of unparliamentary anecdotes.
Some non sequitur. Yes, I fancy the vernacular.

I want to write but words fail me.