writ of pattern

apparently vicious

rumors float in my head

and I kid myself that art is not dead

inside me I cannot play

and outside me it starts to weigh

heavily on my soul and mind

i cannot fight

and i cannot mend,

the broken self

that has started to bend

toward the light

i reach right now

if only for a crayon-gift-like

taste of ever and after

mystery uncurls itself

inside an intermittent self-ish

superiority precedes the need to be

expressed and extraordinary

richness presents itself outside

the bounds of perfection lost in writ

and pattern