“If you practice an art, be proud of it and make it proud of you. It may break your heart, but it will fill your heart before it breaks it; it will make you a person in your own right.”
-Maxwell Anderson
The Top
Ascension beckoned strength,
coaxed from depths red
in arrogance
while scarce
in thought.
Dividing time by zero,
placing it
neatly folded amongst the dismal
and weary sighs
of those you left behind, now
indistinguishable
from those who chose to stay.
Each limb
promises a resting place,
to which each thought
begs for congratulations,
pleads never stopping as reward.
In the painted backdrop
of a low budget
grade school play,
as during the final draft
of a well-written novel,
whole beings become blurs,
become insubstantial flecks
riding the edges
of ink spattered on white paper
where words should be
Mute
Trapped underfoot whilst
being subjugated by brief,
barely audible barking.
Tendons shift,
testing their strength.
They brace themselves,
nerves dancing
under calloused arches.
Somebody,
somewhere,
bites the bullet,
reinstating silence
at the risk of one lousy tooth
The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. H. Miller
