Ode

We are the children of our parents, grown from the dry earth one season into the moistness of another. Our colors are bright in the darkness where we shine best under that dim glow, like rose gold and yellow diamonds. Put us under the scrutiny of daylight and you will see our skin shine like obsidian, like gold dust, like unpolished tourmaline. We are the perfectly imperfect creatures bought into the world to live alongside each other. What does contentment look in our line of vision? Success in measurable units, within defined scopes of accomplishment. Some of us are not as lucky as others to be thrust into such bona fide wisdom so we roam farther and deeper toward the edge. Artists we may be, nullified creative heads worth a penny or three. Oh but we dream in generous doses. We see entire galaxies dancing around us, astrological beings whispering into our willing ears, telling us what we seek is at the end, at the finish of that goal. The one filled with glorious purpose. And despite our renewed hopes our sense of direction remains the same. We wake up to our deafening realities, those poised situations and lofty burdens. Should we call this one form of wealth?