To
want for more, a greater self, adrift a daydream. I need
for
life, the rarest gem, to utter a perfect sentence. We edge
a
passion, a deadly fringe, totally awkward. I’m soon to
laugh,
left alone, hosting auditions. So many classes, a
featured
atmosphere, forced to engage. Life is gentle this
way,
quelling insecurities—for a greater good; and look
at
her: a wordsmith, standing stalwart, gesturing with
palms
and fingers. I stare in awe, sifting knowledge, a
walking
robot. Days are moving, a scythe to soul, ever a
hermit.
It’s an urge to long, lost in composition, chiseling
every
segment. But life is uncooked, as raw as an
introduction,
where walls form fortresses. Once so gentle,
prior
to fear, a fever for others. I’ve grown aloof, deeply
absorbed,
open to like-willed souls. Art is a paradox,
fraught
with murky ponds. It’s a spear, even a fiber,
driving
a vision, a need for understanding.
