I seek not the laurel wreath of genius
Placed on my Promethean brow!
Only the sleep of sweet Coleridge's ilk,
Where I see my life as in a cave of ice!
Surrounded by friends, peering in
And questioning the firmament as to its plan
For such as I, born of woman, yet seeking the stars,
And the succor of wisdom bestowed upon this mortal form.
Praise not my words which flow like the supple lines
Of a seductress caught up in throes of passion,
Who weeps as her lover leaves for a quest
Defined by that which is so near
And yet exceeds the grasp of all but few mortals:
Those who define themselves as lightning!
Etching words in the night sky " I AM ! "