Is greatness carved
from the desire for greatness?
Contained within some weighty block,
neither eager nor patient, obstinately set.
Is it cobbled and collaged,
years of sediment mounting and pressing
slowly amassing to some requisite threshold
Is it birthed as if from nothing,
emerging in an ostentatious flare,
the product of greater forces, shifting
What I’m really asking is,
should I flit between the flowers
and lie amongst the grass
while I still can?