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The Book

[after Joe Wenderoth]

Somehow I missed it.
During the summer of my eleventh year, I missed it.
I was younger then, eager to believe in such fantasies,
ready, scanning the skies.
I imagined my reactions, my affiliations, even my core.
I reigned in my belief and enjoyed it.
And this belief, growing with rapid pace,
transformed into being.
One day, not too recently,
leafing through the old pages,
I realized it would never manifest,
my invitation not merely lost in the air.
I recognized, further, that this was why it exists,
to raise and dash my hopes forever, infinitely.
Since then I have stepped back,
taken a defensive stance,
and yet it is relentless.
My only hope is to live again,
open the source of pain and start again fresh,
become vulnerable another time
in a new manner,
or even just the same, initial one
both wonderful, and still terrible, in equal ways.
Between my creation and me,
a struggle is growing.
Together, we will never part.



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