‘My life has been the poem I would have writ,

But I could not both live and utter it’

Henry James Thoreau

And I cried

in the kitchen,

for Beauty’s beyond

me.

I know it

should not

matter

but it

does.

That when

I write and

dance and sing

and feel

that I am

being shut

out of realms

of divinity:

the glassy plains

of the transcendent.

I am Earth-bound,

with a soul

that yearns

to unite with airy loftiness

but stumbles

and mumbles

in the clunk

and failure,

whilst other

gossamer souls

soar and delve

mining and mirroring

the riches of

abundant plenty.

*

He held me

and looked me

straight in the eye.

I realised

that my

art is in

my living:

the bounding

of my heart;

the alchemy

of my emotions;

the boundaries

of my bones;

the glory of

my joyous, shining

belief in the

brilliance and radiance

of connection.

My laughter.

My fury.

My dreams.

My choices.

My desires.

A living breathing

Mythology.

I may not

leave behind

masterpieces,

as I fumble and float forward,

but maybe even

simply

the attempt

is something mythic

something magic

something uncontained.