Poetry on an Autumn afternoon

So I was sleeping (as I often do) on a bench in the Fine Arts Building, letting a couple choirs, a painful art exhibit, and a violinist watch me snore, when the idea for a poem siezed me by my tousled hair and commanded to be written. I always listen when inspiration does that (even when the results titter out luke-warm or insipid... but don't tell my muse...). I listen especially closely when inspiration-siezing happens in the midst of a creative dry spell. I haven't written anything good for days. Days I tell you! I haven't even written anything bad. At least that would be something.

How does "my artificial empire" sound? I thought it sounded lovely. Just let it roll around on your tongue for a moment. Feels good, doesn't it? It is going to be about acting/theater. Good times to be had by all. I'm still deciding which way to go metaphorically (you could take that so many different ways--aren't words wonderful?). I'm happy to announce that I've finished "Brutus" at least for now. He'd been tormenting me for weeks unrelentingly. Much like the man it's based on actually, and just as unknowingly I'm sure.

I wish you could see the clouds right now. Oil paint clouds. I love the Fall. Perfect. No wonder it's so fleeting.