The swirling steam of the fire of this life,
Captured in my gilded coil. My fashioned attempt,
To process, to distill all things perceived into some draught,
But the leaks confound me, ever slipping through these fingers.
Maddening the effort, turning lead to gold,
Or more like adding sense to happenings like stars,
Out in the cold dark, getting on with their lives to blast and burden,
And I call it the Breeze, of such benevolence. It makes sense to my simple mind.
Etching stones for someone to find,
But they never find them how I left them,
Or how I think they were left; ever…, ever maddening.
The Pierced Hand has put something very beautiful in this cage.
I can feel it, here under clownish flesh.
A riddle for me to solve; thoughts more like memories.
The golden words help to guide, but I pine for a perfect volcano,
To relieve all this creation inside me, a release for precious stones with proper scratches.
Divided by love and yearning for fruit,
I hope to capture a masterpiece some day, some how.
Be it paint or prose, porcelain or poetry; I must find a way,
To give to this world what was truly meant by my current frustration.
I know there are many grains of sand on the beach.
I know every soul has a song to sing and that song is crystalline humanity.
I know the Breeze blows with a purpose, for fanning the fire or forcing the fracture.
I know that I will find a way to give what is needed, if I can grow tall enough to put my
finger to the ceiling.
Inspired by a recent trip to Rome, Italy.