Genius As What I Am

I am the designer of this dream of the me.
But you are there, all one hundred
Billion neurons swirling around in my head. . .
We meet up from time to time. All is the search
For some New Piece that clings, if only. . .to the shadows. . .
Yet, genius is the me unknowable; a melody not yet written,
Dangling somewhere in Mozart’s head.
An unborn heart of hearts beats in rhythm
With another place, to another time. This clever, living,
Breathing soul of the illusory belongs to the mind’s eye,
Willing to live inward, but fretful am I
Of the bonds of its deliverance. Captured by hesitation’s sigh
For a while, just a little while, I dream of this gift,
This unsullied mystery that visits within to stir the gift of hope,
I hope. Dreams of the genius burn the dark cold,
As upon this time, failure lingers in obscurity. Ambition stets.
No armor or valor sways tomorrow’s aim, all things flow
In coeval Eloquence. Timelessness in fullness cries.
And so. . . genius thinks with the mystery of the sigh!
Who knows this me I cannot see? I wait as what I am.