Amateur Artist at Work

Words force themselves into my mind
Like “friendly” Facebook bots
Claiming to speak on behalf of a meaningful life.

Aspirations keep arising like the breaking dawn,
Ebbing and flowing, rising and falling,
Born, borne along, then dying on the vine.

How can I even speak of birth and death,
Peering out of this unrealized in-between,
As I float past the mists of being I call myself?

It’s a real dilemma–well perhaps not all that real–
Mostly persistent because unnoticed,
These robo-calls that have my number.

I keep opening my mouth
In search of life in this still-life portrait,
If only I could find that perfect drop of blue or gold.

Then, dead ending once more in a familiar landscape,
It dawns on me in a tentative leap of joy,
I can paint myself past this corner in the road.

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