Scratching at the Surface

Inward lies inspiration dark and divine.

Visions that cannot scale the inner-wall

thus are never quite defined at all.

Like a sea painted on a tapestry,

dry and idle rendered by the hand...

see how much the same I am.

These pieces of my joy and pain are all I have to give you.

Sharing them may be their greatest purpose.

I bear my soul in vein, though my words may touch you.

I know I’m only scratching at the surface.

Its a verve too elusive for these words.

Words, even now I’m finding hard to write.

An esoteric surge.

Like phantom pains,

or the rhythm of the falling rain.

Ideas

As intangible as time...

I try to catch them just the same.