needle or sorcerer’s wand,
Wielded by fluttering fingers,
Cast their design with a mystical bond
Enticing emotion which lingers
Beyond the creative impulse exquisitely
Conjuring visions imagined
Where passion for meaning electrifies me
And keeps me from feeling imprisoned.
I could have chosen to suffer the stress
When hunger for status enslaves,
But deep in my yearning, strange dreams coalesce,
Which most sublimate to their graves.
I never could stare at a castrating
While my energy puddled my chair,
Even given percentage of profits obscene,
As my payment for utter despair.
So I work with my hands
with slight compensation
Except reckoning never known
By those hoarding trinkets as their explanation
For a life where no light’s ever shone.
My fingers know joy is the only
matters within a brief life,
Wielding scissors or hammer like
a magical sword
Instead of a cheap
Which others attempt to pull from the stone
cut themselves free from what’s tragic,
I can exult in each stitch that I’ve sewn
a journey whose rapture’s pure magic.