When does nature turn to art?
Here he stands,
Raising hot dust from cold
Trying to fashion beauty
From brutish chisel
Strike and scratch.
Passioned blows
Seeking form, in form
Already there.
Not knowing when
These vain stabs cease
Makes him wonder.
We are crawling
Under the beams
Dodging flashlights
Without being seen
Yet still we crane to see
Through the darkened glass
Of who we want to be
Whispering to be opened
To be unwrapped before
The time of what may happen yet
Staying curled up like infants
Ball shadow flat against the wall.
In fear, of what we may become.
Oh, the whispers we might hear
if we stayed silent in the noise
listening to the audience
and not the sound of
our own voice.