My hands grow tired
trying to hold onto sleep—
gripping fragments of tension
while my thoughts drift too deep
to be attentive, to pay attention
to what the world calls worthy.
I swim in the farthest corners
of thought—beyond my depths—
yet I never run out of breath.
There’s freedom in this dive,
in expressing all I feel.
This pen is the extension
of my soul’s most honest reach.
Above a mantelpiece,
I search for a worth I could call
my dear—starstruck like a deer
beneath hunting lights.
And though *******, the trophy
hunter loves the chase
more than the prize.
That, too, is a kind of art.
By genuine reflection,
I still call myself an artist—
one still learning the form,
still finding the lines
between vision and mastery.
The lessons are never done.
What I hold in my hand
feels like something from a
Divine hand— a gift placed gently
by a hand not my own.
Art is adamant progress:
unyielding, sacred, slow—
but still,
I move.