Though I feel that
I am at the crest of the world,
I know I am only defined by words
With a passion now human.
Though I have limits and limitations,
I know that my hope exceeds them.
And even as life tears me apart,
I still choose to write the sorrow and exploit
The hollows of its weakness.
Time is a dismembered calendar,
And though days fall like seasonal gestures,
I neither end nor begin.
For though I am finite,
The poetic dreams turn themselves
Around and preserve me.
I am a syllable from a broken phrase.