The Poetic Journey

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The Poetic Journey

There is a fasciation in doing
What we do, it might have been
The most genuine obsession I came upon
An altruism of a neurochemical

Some self-reward mechanism akin to
Meditation, the journey of words
It’s a customer journey of art
Of taking a craft and doing it

For an hour, a year, a lifetime
Musicians practice ten hours a day
But I’m compelled to listen
To the silence and for collisions

To collude with voices, ghosts, poets
To love what you do in gender, exhibition
Without rewards, not for profit
Sharing it freely with a world

Anonymous, not regretting
Borrowing and borrowed
Never really bored, only sitting alone
For hours pouring, peering, patiently

Waiting for the ideas of the soul
That I might do what you do
And become a bit of what you are
The sacred in the mundane

And a mystic in the invisible
Sifting language for a golden moment.

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