My acquaintance with an insatiable hunger is tugging as if at war with wisdom. My appetite for understanding becomes a connection fostering self discovery with components of reproach. Deflections in my path create tribunals while I cannot overlook what my heart whispers: Be still, lodge where care finds pattern. Perception only happens backwards and whatever aches endures; this has to be for a greater healing than any diagnosis surfacing. My muse becomes stories created for closure when my malady is vague. How do I keep my life simple when whatever I have exists in my objective opinion? Am I really remarkable? Is this just my longing to value what has no price, constructing a reality for convenience? My art form, a game I play with poetry and verse. Inscriptions unravel what my mind cannot, while searching for an intention. Must I once again linger in this exercise of verbal stroking; looking for the reward which exists only in the implementation of reverie? My trance has become a tango with a partner who I cannot greet? Predictions completed my comprehension while prose exists in my engagement with imagination. My breath exhales waiting for language not found; I inhale and wait for the union. Is this my dance with an unknown future’s wave? Can questions propose an opportunity existing in humility and affirmed in happiness? This may be the reason my heart persuades deliberate word worship. I don’t presume to really know for sure.
Question of the day. Do I perpetuate feelings and thoughts instead of taking action because staying in my head is safer?
