An art that sure don’t care
An intellect? An artist?
Languish in the mire, undecided
Hold an evanescent breath
Continue to stand and applaud
Hoping to prompt an encore
From a stage that’s gone dark
Name what it’s called when you cannot help but
Address each and every creature and the
City of emotions that washes over you, leaving you in a
State of awe? And, for those who feel
Zip? What do you call them?
The Scene: You are an actor and I, an epic script
With minds to set the screen afire
With hope upon our lips
The Method: Be emboldened and feel the risk with me
We’ll project timeless, endless strength
We’ll cast doubt to the sea
“It is full,” I say
when I look at the empty.
It is full. I say.
At the Center
Who or What
Not falling stars
Nor momentary shooting stars
Nor echoes in the dead of night
Not half-attempts at anything
Nor abstract things
Just real things
Artist Credit: Tiger R.; at various ages