I fear not being.
I fear not realising my dream,
more so, not knowing it.
I do things inhuman-like,
it pays for my pens, those that help me search.
I get up, follow the routine and occasionally,
occasionally I feel something different,
it nudges and stirs the stagnant pools of
I have seen beauty and not known it,
rather twas revealed through other's faces,
waited to be taken
in by the sun's late offering.
I am terrified of the dark inside
so readily sculpting the view from my window.
How can it so?
I caught a glimpse of fearlessness in 1992,
it lodged and dined for nearly three weeks,
it entered like waves of softened silk,
uncreasing the starchy folds between my dawn and dusk.
My truth revealed above, in type,
unmasks a newness sought here.