to make something of myself
I am but a drop in a bucket of water trembling over the rim, waiting, wavering surface tension, like music, like rests I am waiting, in a cocoon of skin and hair the sun rises, and sinks, over and over waiting, I write, I sleep, I live Thriving day to day, living day to day waiting for the trumpet call, waiting for resonance Am I another keeper in an dead grove? The fall leaves crunch underfoot as I walk forward, forever walking forward Every day I look back; the path yawns shortly I can see so many spiderwebs before me Branching in shimmering octets of sound Will I choose my own harmony Forever I walk forward Forever I look back, and then I squint at the sun So far away, and yet it surrounds me I have yet to tread my path with determination I have resigned myself to follow the highway But one day I will make this path my own.