Not Living the Sublime

I know there is
the sublime to reach for.
Kneeling
with fire in her hands
and golden beauty
as her cloak.

But I’m here.
Single-wide
bad paint job
debt
and treeless sand.

I know, somewhere,
exists a dream maker.
Framed with lightning,
outstretched wings,
and a rain of
crystal
or diamonds.

But I’m here.
Sick in mind,
weak in body,
looking at a rug
I should not
have bought.

I know, within sight,
there are fields
of unending color.
Of flight to other lands,
and bath tubs
made of brilliant copper
and never ending
hot water.

But I’m here.
Writing dreams
and painting thoughts
that not many care
to hear.

I know, somehow,
a stage is lit up
where I could dance
alone or in number,
audience unseen
uncared for.
For above the lights
the blackened stage
and my bare feet
I can see
what I was promised
as a child.
A world of beauty,
or dance and music,
of adventure,
where dreams come true
and we’re all in the play
and I have time to run
along violin strings
paint wide arches
of dragons
above my head
and sprinkle light
about the floor.

But I am here.
Tired, dismayed,
old before my time,
where I can be nothing
but space.

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