Moleskine in palm;
its crude appearance wears timelessly,
and yet but eighteen years have worn creases in mine.
the simplicity disguises the complexity within,
for true beauty lies beneath the skin.
L’Plume in hand;
its wordy purpose so full of blotted potential,
like the creative finger I never had.
gold-nibbed and poised with majesty.
A ceremonial gesture, chosen with care.
Poet in thought.
Words come and go, abundantly so,
but few seem worthy of the page.
And so the naked canvas;
to be purchased by fools who wish to admire
something more thoughtless than they.