By Loycie Casey
Always beyond my reach, yet I know it.
Hypnotic in a sense I almost taste.
Restless spirit, seeking soul expression.
Ten Fingers outstretched reaching for the key.
If I'm not meant, why can I almost see?
In the quiet, a haunting promise calling,
Whispers to my strained and aching ears.
Dangling golden words unvoiced, evasive,
A soaring living song, loud and so near.
If I'm not meant, why can I almost hear?
Just beyond this gated wall, I own it.
The beauty all my life has felt and heard.
Never rest, keep stretching, climbing, crying.
Keep laughing, loving, searching for the key.
If that's not meant, how can a poet be?