Deep from within my core
She screams at me-a tantrum boiling over
Angry, when I don’t get my way.
So I cry; even when I can’t understand the reason.
She’s just a child… but fire is in her belly.
I think…we are separate.
“That must be the fool speaking”, informs the practitioner—She’s always in the know.
So I ask the creative team--the most complex artist tells me,
The cynic scowls, while rolling his eyes and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. “Why bother? Just BE!”
And from the second level—though he changes place too frequently-- the Lover whispers,
“A smooth stroke of ink—on paper seems to soothe the sorrows of the soul.”
So, I weigh the swirling opinions…for some miniscule,
Yet eternal seeming moment,
Because I cannot bear to listen to another,
And all are silent.