she is a possibility, and i call her “flame”

her myth precedes her, and presides

the whimsical outflows of the springs of time

she is a beauty, i hear, when beheld from afar

(from close up, what then titillated nearly repels:

as is oft the case with wishes upon a star)

she knows to be curse or blessing in disguise

she sings and hums in the wind’s respites

once i allude to my future, claim it does not exist

on my contradicting myself, she is first to insist:

“if you can think it, it is, as for how else

do i bubble up every morning inside your well?

why question my materiality

when it lives in the intersection of your limits and reality’s?”

she is here, but not here,

wails at my every adversity

yet when i ask in indignation for a helping hand, she

evaporates into thin air

as if never seen, never been

leaving me on the verge of lunacy;

and as if someone knew, they inaudibly speak:

“if you wish to find me again,

don’t look for things that others achieve

what they built with their very own hands

are not the words wherein i breathe”

but i don’t know where to go, i whisper

i don’t know where my steps lead

“smell the air and head for freshness

at the end of the road, i will accept your complaint.

if you learn to forgo, you learn to outgrow.

the flame is waiting at the end.”


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