Trapped like the four walls of pure imprisonment
Racing like the successful men of the busiest city
And Scattered like the shattering glass of anger
A thought is tragic when it ends in “S”

Breathing heavily he waits
An ocean breeze to slow the chaos
To fill his lungs with purpose and direction
His body with a lack of fear

And as the clouded thinking clears
A light upon the darkened picture
He exhales success
I’ve figured it out

Now when it is gone
A thought
An artist’s one true lament

03/03/2009

Posted on 03/03/2009
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Wilson