Forever fastidious and flowing,
that’s how I’d like to be.
Perhaps frequently I’d like to feel,
flying among others somehow never faltering.
For as often as I can dream, I am compelled.
Compelled to wish for fleeting thoughts,
the first steps often always being so shaky.
Folklore finally sinking in.
For as much as I can read, meaning never found,
I can only fixate on the few functions I can accomplish.
Factions seem so clear, far from where they used to lay.
I want to find something, perhaps fantasy but never final,
aspiring to fictions that can never be my own.
My own life a grim hard fairy-tale, one I escape with faded glory.
For every falling figure skater, I only see a large finite fortunes being told
for many of the figures that compare their failure seems to hard to pin I wonder if I’ll have my own.