I wonder, as another book is filled,
The cost of secrets hidden from my life –
As many try the brush, the pen or knife,
Yet inconsistent come the answers willed.
And not through lack of trying do we fail.
The payment often drains our very heart,
Whose bleeding splatters pages with our art,
To leave our bodies empty, dry and frail.
Oh, universe, what more can I now pay?
You have my blood, my memories, my soul,
And still I see eternal nothing, whole.
What luxury have I, to long delay?
Although your time is endless, I must go,
With still so many things I yearn to know.
Jonathon Best ©
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