It is time. That time when I must
Either stand tall, perch by,
Or, at the least, crawl toward
What I might call a ‘find.’
The rest then is still there
Lingering somewhere in my mind
Laughing at me from those cozy corners
Where meet my mind’s heart and heart’s mind.
I mustn’t cry out loud,
Shout, complaint, quiver
Abuse, mewl, or be wilted.
I must go through this grind.
Attempts are harder than perfection.
Yet with every attempt
I must work it up better—
Make it more refined.
Weave thoughts. Streamlined.
Stitch together the purpose and prose.
Compose the music that runs
Effortlessly across; Intertwined.
Of all that by then is done
Is that I am the first sentence down.
That’s all it takes for me.
Thereafter, I never look behind.