Drive
By MPTGraves
When lost within sepulchral strains
of melodies and of refrains
of dreams made flesh by other men
who daring, did create the thing
that something, to them, clearly meant,
I long, and deeply, for a hint
of what they have, ingrained therein.
What is that fey ingredient
that gives them drive to not be sated
'til thought and dream they have created?
How can such as I attain
that which grants such men the name
'inventor', 'author', 'poet', 'bard'
or any title of regard?
Where does one find balance between
admiring art and realizing dreams?
and how ever could I discard
my admiration of others' art
in favor of the constant task
of tapping my creative cask
to let flow forth ideas untold
which all to then spin into gold?
-mg