Want
Talent. Tantalizing, too tall to reach, and yet
Ceases to be itself when you climb for it
The envy of the average, the drug of the exceptional
A gift from God grasped by the fingers of Want
Want although we do not know its meaning
Want although we question its mattering
It lies deep within us
Tangled up in our obsessions and drives
The minotaur in the maze, the string that we follow, and the bride who waits with held breath
Its size does not matter, it fills us the same as it leaves us empty
The talent to sing is not the talent to smile
The talent of mind is not the talent of hands
But these talents, living in our bodies like a spirit of their own
Are nothing more than the insatiability for skill
And a raw hope that we may one day see what our Want already does