Unwritten

Writing, writing,
scribbling away at the page,
at your life, at your very being.
Tossing the page, and the seconds,
and starting again.
                             Trying to find that sound
that, when felt once, though another,
reminds you of you, and all that you stood for
when you stood for anything. You felt it once,
like keys to life waiting to be pulled from the page,
ink holding humanity like the gods only dreamed.
But that was a projection, and you were a project,
molded by yourself into the very latticework of self.
And you knew it, too.
                                 Yet here you are, trying
to find the rhythm, the beat and the flow,
and everything that follows in four-four time
and a vivid painting splashed across your chest,
painted into the back of your memory, snapped
when it didn't matter (but now it's all that ever did),
in stonewashed sepia and brightest white, details
fading out to a caricature of perfection—of man
and of woman, and all that entails.
                                                    Perhaps
life seems simpler then because the details
have just washed away, leaving one and one,
and five thousand grinning faces, roaring
glassy-eyed in deepest mahogany,
stumbling back to earth together, and we
were all so innocent, so pure, arms interlaced,
haughty letters and status quo.
                                               Trying to find
that sound, that, when felt once, through another,
reminds you of you, and all that you stood for
when you stood for anything. You felt it once,
and that's all that matters now, that and how
you're still trying to capture it. Etching
the statue of your youthful self, your golden idol,
but you'll never free yourself from the marble
because you're outside of it. You'll never know,
because all you ever needed was the silhouette,
the structure and the scaffolding,
then to leave it be.