I felt it die, quite tangibly,
the fire inside, desire
to reach for stars, not settle

sometimes I stare straight ahead
for minutes awaiting some impulse
to move

spun wheels
in a mud of my making
pretending the usual will do

I have grown to accept
being insufficiently content
lacking the elusive prize

occasionally I rally,
the moment rushes, wells
in my chest

but I’m a dying match
my conflagration
never comes

I miss having purpose

Chagall 2018

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