I do wish sometimes that I had some kind of exotic place to visit to talk about,
or an adventure that I could describe in great detail,
or even post wonderful pictures or paint something
something that made you hold your breath.
I used to have such a deep desire to be a great poet
and to be remembered for the lovely words that I spoke,
but then alas that dream shattered, it would not be so.
I then thought I could make craft with my hands,
so I began to learn to knit and found quickly
that it was more of a discipline in completing something begun
rather than a love or passion to quickly get back to.
I've read books, upon books, thinking that I would be an author
and relishing in the words that would jump from the pages
to become alive and pull me into the vortex
of a long forgotten world, or a place yet to be.
My dreams seem to fade into the parchment of life,
yellowing at the corners turned up edges
and fold marks so worn they are fragile to the touch,
but I love the written word. It's spinning of silk to weave
a fabric of make believe or truth, whatever you may want right now,
a word smiths gathering.
