I Miss It Every Minute,

Adulthood Isn't An Award They'll Give You For Being A Good Child. You Can Waste Years, Trying To Get Someone To Give That Respect To You, As Though It Were A Sort Of Promotion Or Raise In Pay. If Only You Do Enough, If Only You Are Good Enough. No. You Have To Just Take It. Give It To Yourself, I Suppose. Say, I'm Sorry You Feel Like That And Walk Away. But That's Hard

Some People Grow Into Their Dreams, Instead Of Out Of Them.

How Could You Be A Great Man If History Brought You No Great Events, Or Brought You To Them At The Wrong Time, Too Young, Too Old?

When The Souls Rise Up In Glory, Yours Shall Not Be Shunned Nor Sunderered, But Shall Be The Prize Of The Gods' Gardens. Even Your Darkness Shall Be Treasured Then, And All Your Pain Made Holy.

His Outflung Hands Traced Over The Threads Of His Rug, Passed Loop By Loop Through Some Patient Woman's Hands. Or Maybe She Hadn't Been Patient. Maybe She'd Been Tired, Or Irritated, Or Distracted, Or Hungry, Or Angry. Maybe She Had Been Dying. But Her Hands Had Kept Moving, All The Same.