My pale, wretched character
feeds off greatness;
sustained by an unreachable
ideal of who I could be,
but still the embodiment
of inadequate action.
I take a deep breath
and admire that greatness,
wondering if you see
what I see;
with inspiration,
I move towards the ideal –
but only a single step.
In these moments
when I become more than I am
by looking at you,
we are equal;
so quickly the illusion
shatters.
I could never be the past me,
as of yesterday that ship sailed;
witnessable here are cracks, see –
once wondrous colors now have paled;
still, strength remains within the beams,
and atop the mast a flag flies true;
ever set on the course of dreams –
hard at work, this lonely crew;
seemingly endless exhausting toil,
held together by a single reason;
to finally set foot on heaven’s soil –
maybe I will arrive next season.
A writer’s soul is a blind battle cry
tempered minds attempt to quiet;
its blood burns with the sun
in depths of undiscovered strength,
dreaming private conquest;
extracting elegance from discord
to forge wings with it;
this is homage to the honing
of the destruction of silence;
witness if thou wilt,
our words echo of stars.
Don’t wear his wool,
it won’t help against the cold;
mistakenly removed from a fool
who never listened to what was told;
defying myriad canines snarling,
shepherds hungry to box him in place;
guided only by purring starling,
searching for his own glowing grace;
repeating remarks in a tone of snide,
feeble attempts to carve at the core;
each insult quickly taken in stride,
aiding a journey towards something more;
still, misery resides beneath his coat,
cast it aside if found lying nearby;
unless determined to be worthy of note,
passing through darkness into clear sky.
trav/is 
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