Forge Equilibrium

Is what I do equal to everyone else working in any field of expression, including music and art? Am I equal to my counterparts, be they musicians or painters? I've struggled with this question almost all year, and it caused a bit of writers' block as you might have noticed if you pay any attention between the dates between my last and second last posts.

Forge Equilibrium

If I'm a paper mill
and others are workshops of song,
can we both be beholders of light
and shine the same?

Will I be a saviour
just as those who save me every day are?
And with no answer to this question still,
the end of this year is just a deadlock:
a dead end in the road
that seemed to pass endlessly
beneath the wings of birds.

"You can be whoever you want to be".
"You are my son, you can do anything".
"I cried when I read that, son".

Like ropes in my hand you people are: knotted
and bound, bonds across centuries of memory.
Like songs in my head, when I slither out of bed,
these are those everlasting words.

And to hope that someday I'll compare dreams with her
and forge equilibrium
so my thoughts can be safe in sound
is probably the greatest task of all.

Because it signals both the day
I will cease chasing the horizon
and the day it begins chasing me.

"I cried when I read that, son"