‘What if someone steals it,’ Cheryl asks me,
Ramping up previously nonexistent fear
I quickly file away and smile nonchallantly,
‘I’m not worried,
if they steal it and make money, it’s extra publicity for me,’
Hearing my own bald-faced lie,
emotional attachment to letters arranged,
I pulled the strings, touching my soul
and back out again,
I file the fear for a different day, the future calm,
My subconscious
with time to digest
Then spurts the answer I need to relax, and
When the answer came
Of sculptures soaring free
Where anyone can climb and enjoy,
see and take in
Interpret their own meaning
The clear thought that true art,
Coming from deepest space inside,
Should be free to disperse in the public’s eye,
To remind us all how, as humans together,
There is more than fragmented dreams allow,
I could say all of this in a lengthy late reply,
But the answer was just for me,
The fear breathed out,
after-stress sigh.
Thank you, subconscious,
For sorting all that out,
Now if only you were focused
On feeding my monetary drought.
the answer for that seemingly life-long question
would come just as easy, and take away the stress
that desolate accounts plague my dreams at night.