Want

Talent. Tantalizing, too tall to reach, and yet

Ceases to be itself when you climb for it

The envy of the average, the drug of the exceptional

A gift from God grasped by the fingers of Want

Want although we do not know its meaning

Want although we question its mattering

It lies deep within us

Tangled up in our obsessions and drives

The minotaur in the maze, the string that we follow, and the bride who waits with held breath

Its size does not matter, it fills us the same as it leaves us empty

The talent to sing is not the talent to smile

The talent of mind is not the talent of hands

But these talents, living in our bodies like a spirit of their own

Are nothing more than the insatiability for skill

And a raw hope that we may one day see what our Want already does