The Seventh’s Stretch

The Seventh’s Stretch

In the pitch of night is when fantasy alights

We’re all equal when mind’s fire ignites

Emotions that flow sets desire half filled

If only the physical were that easily willed

How do you greet the imposters that Kipling posed?

It’s not the process that’s supposed

It’s the conclusion after all that illuminates your pose

Admiration is never for failure of face not showed

Then the thought of “am I the impossible”?

Neither success nor failure for my space is between the molecules

So it isn’t either or but how much is possible

This finest of line is the loneliest walk in time

Mind at a standstill is a lie or a joke

Gin-filled is the accurate truth but there’s still the yoke

Of desire unfulfilled because …. well, see above already told

This conversation demonstrates a story old yearning for bold