With his fingers, one lonely man
carved a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. Others wrote elusive,
naked songs and poems. Nomads
poured out bibles and speeches.
Soliloquies. Today, each moment,
the world still cracks, falling in love
with Marilyn Monroe. And here I am,
digging into the stream, trying
to express what lies inside,
but like the rest, I'll never quite
reach. I'm sure you already know.
C.A. MacConnell
