a poem by Craig McGeady

Baskingin the warmth of sentimentality, where the eyes

stretchedeons beyond the belly and all that was seen

wasdesigned to ignite the sweetest regions of the soul.

Wehave it, it’s there, only misused and abused, sullen

andconfused by the words we festoon upon its girth,

dressingit in the limits of twine, fashioned with notions

ofwhat’s yours and not mine, and what soon will be.

Determinedto curb the splendor of our minds, the reach

ofour thoughts, the visions we could craft from a willingness

togrind, so long as the end game was seen as worth it.

Theend game is lost in a perpetual fog of attainable goals

fora few, a hardy, lucky few and you could be too as long

asyou throw your weight into the game, playing by rules

you’llnever get to know and change with a winner’s whim.

Wenarrow our bands of acceptance, as we have narrowed our

dreamsuntil the fight within us peters out, a desire

toshout at inaction is lost, tossed on all consuming fires.

Thosefires should be illuminating, fueling a hunger for more,

nota wastrel’s hunger, where only the corrupt have enough,

butfor the intangible, those moments that dance on our fingers,

leaving us panting and ranting for the sweetness of our souls.

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