A forest of maybe
caught the beams of yesterday
when all that was wanted
was to find the path through.  The fog
condensed to segment the position into a plane
confused by the forward motion of search
and purple falling
where gold and notoriety should
be.  Was the goal cast aside by becoming
the walking insurrection
of dashed childhood beliefs
the lack of animation of a puppet

 

without our hands?  We do nothing
clearly or fortuitous in am
but only in that forest,
a maybe of consequence past the deadening
fog, where the anxiousness pours down and out
through the limbs bowed,
exhausted by forethought and the chance
of light we might encumber
when tripped by memories
and the hope of recognition that doesn't create
anything but the edge of dew
slick on the fingers dropping the tool
it took years to learn
to hold

 

on to the now placement
of him encapsulated by youth
and the winks caught from the corner
of a sight not sure, groping
for acceptance.  Is the number
of trees counted to that
limit the way he sees or is
he the eye blank and unmoved,
glazed, when placed on the pedestal
in the stare of celebrity lost?