What "it" is exactly;
The world may never know.
But through clever subtle suggestion...
I hope to bestow or show.
Let it begin
To some it pushes;
Others he pulls.
It's the longing of writers
And the desire of fools.
The artist must scratch it
Creation its only appeasement.
But the industrial man
pretends he never sees it.
It stabs at my feet
And rouses my sleep
Like finding the peace
In the crashing of seas;
Shore; it has a name
But to know it would conjure blame
And we can't have that!
Or "it"
So make.
*ART