There is a duel in my mind kindling the creative fire. One is the gold. It plays beautifully rehearsed through the lines. All kinds of metric are used to get to the peerless outcome. The flawless rhymes, all bathed in the beauty age. Classical writing of yore. The justify button would be jealous of the prosody of her verses. But there is the other side of the spectrum, where it lives the crystal. Her inner child plays with words. The rhymes are still there, but they’re free. They just happen. She speaks through the lines like she’s talking to herself. All imperfections are accepted, all included. And these very flaws are what bring the purest ideal.
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It is the predictable versus the unforeseen. And Levy L. Wells dwells at some point between them, sitting in front of a mechanical typewriter, wondering what is the meaning within the days of lore.