My acquaintance with an insatiable hunger is tugging as if at war with wisdom.
My appetite for understanding becomes connectional
Self discovery with components of reproach.
Deflections in my path create tribunals I cannot overlook
What my heart whispers is: 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
I believe LIfe have become my muse
Stories create closure when my malady is vague
How do I keep life simple when whatever I have exists in my objective opinion
Am I really remarkable? Is this just my longing to be valued
My art form, a game I play with poetry and verse. Inscriptions unravel what my mind cannot
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 complete my comprehension while prose exists in my imagination
My breath exhales waiting for language not found, I inhale and wait for the union
Is this my dance with an unknown future wave? Can questions be proposed?
Opportunity existing in humility and affirmed in happiness?
This may be the reason my heart persuades deliberate word worship.
I don’t presume to know for sure.
