A sort of meditation on talent, and genius, and self-assurance. Prompted by Mapplethorpe

Fame spurs magnetic gravity dark pull
Scorpion whip stings poison gets us high.
Goal glimpsed revolves in mineshaft or the sky
Strings nerve to Braggart knowing never fool.

You know them when you see them. Glitter dust
Features in eyes before their work is done
Chosen beloved be Mused. Not everyone
Who does good work. Theirs is the work we trust

That we see coming fated as a train
On iron tracks that rushes swift as light
Of rocket starshower. Burns out? It might.
Leave gold ash glory. Something will remain

Envy bite this. Work’s good but theirs is more.
Rest cannot know we last but they are sure

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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