A Writers Longing

Photo by sentidos humanos on Unsplash

Searching for distant sunbeams,
Called by lonely peaks,
We become birds, music, and stardust,
Searching for the elixir.

Every writer writes with sadness.
An ache, a longing.
Something unfulfilled.

Our best work reminds us
of that distant something;
that hazy goal we aspire to.

We are happy, as writers, in the ascent.
Perhaps we will reach this time.
But every zenith,
our work falls short.

Ever a higher peak.
Ever an expanded view.
Yet we are mortal,
ever fading.

Writing is solitary.
It is unfulfilling.
Still, it is a calling,
to the highest.