in search of

i was told

it was foolish.

i am too dark to see the bottom,

and who was he

to only stare dumbly at his reflection?

and they all knew...

the one, who, earlier this year,

said

'i like your work,

we want you here.'

now looks at me with his artist's blue,

observing, ever-seeing...

'you're telling a story,

from right inside your mind,

your fingertips flowing,

almost violently,

over wings,

white birds,

red-and-blue birds.

i want to know.

a compulsion, almost,

to see inside your head.'

there's nothing hidden

if you care to search.

no secrets i haven't written

plain to sight

for willing eyes.

even if i can't translate

to another's mind.

it's there to find.