With his fingers, one lonely man
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever
forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,
bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world
falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow
describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless
pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,
trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,
I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.
C.A. MacConnell
