Golden Index

I write my verses of silver and gold
Toasted cereals of honest flavour,
Simple idioms and rustic filigrees,
Fruits and suns, warm metaphors,
And those rhymes that I tenaciously attempt,
Flowers, and my natural congeniality.

I measure the soft strophes,
Sepia letters against a dark backdrop,
And dates, the adequate exotic touch.
The pace is blues, with strikes on the stomach.  
There are eternal seas, the subjacent emotion,
And faces willing to appear in the foreground.

I count the syllables with a finger of fire,
Wild horses, the amplified sound of life.
There are sunsets, red flashes at close range
And writing poems in nights with insomnia.
Yes, inspiration is a serious thing:
But I face it with my personal charisma.