Fellow lonely Libra,
drowning in anticipation,
suffocated by expectations,
seeking comfort in words and balance,
in the concrete reassurance of written emotion, murky-thick.
I ask you, what could be worse than tipped scales?
Empty ones, perhaps.
On the left are heavy realities--
dense, gray and ugly; shifty and unnerving.
Compensating on the right are bubble dreams and paper plans;
snowflake memories of complex, fleeting beauty;
whispers of conversations almost had and perfect words almost spoken;
mirages of strange and busy streets and the echoes of exploding energy;
the aftertaste of self-expression--
subtle, lingering, unidentifiable yet impossible to ignore,
and in the only way that matters, a final impression.
What is it in the aligning specks of light that cranks my wheels so predictably?
When God punched out the holes in the black construction paper sky,
His great cosmic Light Brite,
his design must have been so intricate so refined,
far surpassing my neon trees and electric clouds,
to have included all of us in the plan.
He anticipated me.
And now I anticipate me.
The undiscovered me.
There are no guarantees and only foggy predictions,
but it will be beautiful.
I am a Libra after all--
I wouldn't couldn't have it any other way.