The gift is often only seen in the place traveled least. Pride is both a gift and a burden.

In the willows lost by the creek
I slip into the world I run from
Sly as the snaked on the ground

I tempt her to the word she seeks
Simply taking the pleasure she is
Wonder and placement are here

Pride eats away my humble soul
While the wind blows me around
Taking for granted all those I pass

Shallow the lines of the pretty
Conversation let me believe in her
Honor is as strange as walking

Smiles linger in the field worth living
Who said you could see her anytime
Never understand why she comes and goes

It just the closest thing to living that I know
Burned the pages years ago but eh the book
Where is the lover did she die or just leave

Another slug of the bitterness of life
The poet sings to the birds of land and sea
The painter searches for the life left in the pot

The writer cries for the millions left in blame
Flow and form rip at the sounds of the mark
Thriving is never an answer or a master just here

In the image left each finds that place alone
Born of the field in a manner that leaves black and blue
Chases the sin of pride in a place where the mental live

Physical chase of passion is in the words let go
Words never put to page for willows never cry
It is the traveler that passes that misses the shade

Twigs and life scatter the ground mixed with time