Writer

stars explode over hilltops and mountain range
billion year old fire-fights frozen a billion ways
beauty
more than you or i can attain
and yet
we dabble and scribble
our canvases
and notebooks

within another’s murmurings find art
then why not within our own voice
unless to strangle the growing light of our own quiet star
when the time comes to question
who did this
to stand no matter the inflection
and say
i did.

or to call to a soul as proud and rebellious as thine
to find your work on another’s wall
in another’s heart
well
to preserve the quiet swell of life
or the lows
well
don’t you want to know?