The Artist

Always seeking solace in the physical.
I do implore:
Is there more to what we are?
No answer satiates my urge...
Clinging, scraping toward comfort

Would you prefer the answer or the question?
Possibility or permanence?
A process cycling or a predetermined path?
Pure reality or augmented?

Is this progress
Or a cycle that I am bound to repeat?

Always on the edge of something beautiful.
Limitless in vision
I'm at war with what they say we are.
We are more.

They forgot the forms of the physical
And the world they did not create
Lost beneath their works,
Collective consciousness no longer heard.