An Admiration of Spiritual Committment, or: Never Let the Tigers See Your Stitches.

I want a golden thumb. (Like that boy who wears those gloves all of the time.)
He's seen pages wear white; they're gaining value by losing worth, but still his steady hand holds a proven humility. (I wonder "How?" as well.)
I want to see the back of the man in the corner office. (The one pushing the buttons and turning the wheels.)
He's made things bigger than my eyes can stretch, peripheral included, and I want my own Whole. (1:being in healthy, or sound condition. 2:a totality lacking no part, member, or element.)
I want a room of my own, and the spectacle that comes in prepared speeches and splinters. (Well, it's true, we all want parties. Why do you suppose we have weddings and wish-filled birthday celebrations?)
I want a song -every note in direct correlation to my soul.
Oh, and a dance too -every step mirroring my own.
I want this house to fall, and that water to rise,
I want the sun in my heart, and the shade in my eyes.
(Everything you've got.)
I want it.


Not to be scrutinized.
Not to be sold.
Mostly for my own golden-thumbed Midas, his greed, and the beauty behind it.
I'm dedicating this to the (not-so) potential father of two girls: (One, a famous spinster and the other, a prize.)
Your lust (Culturally always the 2nd) is in health.
Your truth will make you rich.
Thank you.