Power of Mine, Is It?

Having faced a wall, I wondered for where ideas must lie?

The land I cross, the waters through which I wade—could beneath

the surface lie something short of a spectacle;

Is there indeed treasure where they speak of,

Piles and piles of golden wonders that bleed inspiration when cut?

Sidewalk cities I trample, unknowingly as it would be—

Things so little made of so much gone unnoticed,

a shame of all shames to seek not what seeks to be found

After all, it is that only which grants me my power, my words

my light, my thoughts, my mind

For each page that lies blank, there are full thoughts alike;

A fretful game of matching littered with mismatches

A million-way street hinged on the first step towards a way

So the only choice that is left before me is to take with me my 

fishing rod, and cast it across the night sky pool, hoping a star

will catch on.