I'm a pattern in progress, a living unearthed goddess, a tongue-tied promise, an essentially misted poet in an aquatic universally assisted moment.  I don't give reason to rhyme and I don't understand time, at least not in the way I'm supposed to. I feel the cracks in my face with the wormholes of space as the frays of my emotion are lost in the sways of an infinite ocean. I am the night sky thief, a heaven dripped sun kissed damaged and broken leaf that whispers of life where I pause and I wonder, where I stoop under concrete thunder.  I quake at the palms of the youth decay like a prophecy surrounding me, the earth falling apart, my tears don't confound me.  The resounding pressure builds up in the cavity of my chest, I can see the wide eyes of orphans around the corner yearning to press them to my breast.  They are the hopeless denial of lacerated feet and I am the breath in the dust that is far too sweet.  They feel everything, I see nothing.  They are connected, I am apart. They are soul that gives up. I am heart that gives in.  They becomes me and me becomes we and we stumble in a desert surrounded by the sea where a question can't help but be asked, "what else gives life and asks not for a burnt copper penny?" 

we are no longer poor and beautiful. we have come before and become nonsensical. inhaling into the roots of our lungs the very Universe, immutable, reusable, incredible, and immovable where it trembles as it whispers, "Eternity has only begun. You are not alone, and I am not done, together we are a pattern in progress and we are all one." 

Shea Clancy is following