"What you don't feel, you will not grasp by art,
Unless it wells out of your soul
And with sheer pleasure takes control,
Compelling every listener's heart.
But sit - and sit, and patch and knead,
Cook a ragout, reheat your hashes,
Blow at the sparks and try to breed
A fire out of piles of ashes!
Children and apes may think it great,
If that should titillate your gum,
But from heart to heart you will never create.
If from your heart it does not come." -Faust I
_________________________________________
For the moment of being lost,
words of simplicity knew pleasure
as winding roads became uneven;
but remembrances of wanting this
unknown- unrecognizable tenure
kneeled itself before these barren
feet, while expectations of knit one, pearl
two encompassed themselves in patchwork
affectivity…
And scents of sensibility lingered
within the mere moments of recognition
Confiding behind manuscripts and ink-
homemade delights like grandma use to make,
every pore opened- only to sink beyond the
veils of pure excitement
~But still, they held firmly as if
nothing would separate this form
from its being
Standing still watching it all
calmly drift by, an imaginative
relinquishment sighed in peaceful
contentment
Thinking about yesterday’s
laughter echoing not far behind
Yet, traversed in cacophony’s
simplistic world, was when home
seemed but a mere stepping stone
away
Bronze trophy winner
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