The beauty is not in what I’ve
become, or haven’t.
It is the frustration of blinding sight.
To know what must be done and to struggle against the knowledge.
Fifteen years of patience, and something elusive is what's been missed.
Patience is lost, and remedies comfort,
But lack of purpose drives forward,
And each sundown brings new vision.
Breathtaking vistas of time and purpose,
A clarity of vision and of being, so bright,
Whole years I've dreamt of seem to have already happened,
And my feeble hands, moving faster than I can see,
Still cannot write them down.
Images are lost, mixed with seasons and time.
Cold winds mix with perfumed skin and soft, young touch,
And in the end, paralysis and an empty house.