it's cold here, still,
in a way i had long forgotten,
the morning refusing to let go of winter's chill,
even though the birds can be heard singing
with the beginning of the morning.
i can hear the streets outside the hotel,
already bustling with the commuters
on their way into the city,
a strange orchestra of sounds,
caressing and assaulting my ears
that have not yet awoken.
i'll leave today,
and head back to my regular life -
it will be a relief,
and yet, i will be sad to leave this place,
these people whom i have gotten to know a little,
and even the cold mornings.

sun shines today,
but if offers me no warmth,
winter's last hurrah in this,
the desolate green country between north and south,
between winter and spring,
when a forecast means little
and the prognostications of a rodent prove asinine.

but there is joy to be found,
when a crowd will roar for their heroes,
and the hopes of a city once again move
to the shoulders of the boys of summer.

the first was when i heard you,
across the street,
down a ways,
in a place you likely would not expect me.
i doubt you knew i was there.

the second was the other day,
i was sitting in a coffee shop
when you walked by.
i think you saw me then,
and crossed the street.

like there wasn't history,
perfect strangers
never having known one another.
i was on edge for only a moment or two,
and then it was gone.

i saw you today,
barely recognizable if not for your voice,
and for a short moment i was tempted,
to turn and watch.
but why?
to what end?
there would be no point.
i wondered if you saw me,
and realized that i didn't care.
it didn't matter.

i saw you today,
and i think i had to,
just so i would know.

they told me a long time ago
i had "promise"-
and i didn't understand what it meant.
and then i wrote more,
and they said i was "good"
and i thought "that's cool."

then, i began to see something -
i looked for patterns and found them,
recreated them,
studied the masters,
emulating their techniques,
and i thought i knew what i was doing.

then the awful truth hit me:
no one cares.
you can write in whatever style you want,
and no one cares.
because it's not about the things you say,
and it's not about how you say it -
it's about what the audience hears.

And it's about understanding -
that none of us are great,
we simply ARE.

Greatness is for the generations that follow.

and as i went,
i encountered this thing,
new,
and yet,
it felt as though it was something
i SHOULD have known before,
like it was always there
in the background
waiting for me -
familiar, as though in an old life,
but new to me in the here and now.
i longed to touch it, taste it,
know it on every level,
make it a part of me -
but in doing so,
part of my innocence would be lost forever.
i tasted anyway.

the mind goes,
rambling on with thoughts unbidden,
coming at me like a freight train,
unstoppable
until a phrase, a word, a sound
brings me back to the sane quiet that centers me.
it's a voice,
strong and pure,
but simple,
not commanding, but gently reminding me
that there is love in this world,
there is beauty,
and there is purpose.