I drew the first line to find the last,
to build a summit where the search was past.
I set the angles, planned the perfect plane,
and watched the final keystone drop like rain.
But in that turning, I forgot the twist;
the geometry my own hand missed.
The climb became the climb again, I found
a spiral turning on impossible ground.
The destination was a fool’s mistake,
a finite promise for a boundless ache.
The peace I sought was not in finding piece,
but in the act, where striving finds release.
So let the stair continue on its way,
a constant question for a given day.
My work is not in perfect, but the art
of walking on, and being just a part.
No comments:
Post a Comment