De Vinci

Have you racked up time
That dimension that keeps running away from you
And you’re wondering what you can be realistically. 
Am I a Poly Math I wonder?
Yet I cannot paint the Last Supper,
Still I look at the number of things I do,
I get to be poly-something I say to myself.
Perhaps I’m like a tensile polymer
That can stretch words to the blurry spaces
Of metaphors or perhaps I’m just
As worthless as polythene,
Or maybe, if I pack my bags and go to
Utah, I can be a polygamist, big in love.
Whatever I do, I know a legacy
Is in need of me – or vise versa –
I only want to be that bust, before I get busted
Of being a poet who peddled verses too often,
To shoot an ounce of beauty, every time,
The heart was open to a metamorphosis
Of words lapsing to wordless.

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