I wanted fame, money, someone to give a damn
about my writing, a book deal, a magazine
to serve as a platform for my ideals,
and an audience that lauded my expression.
I wanted love, her, the one I've imagined
myriad ways, I've worshipped in every temple,
whose praise I've sung beneath heavy oaks,
and whose scent I'll eternally remember.
I needed it most desperately, more than
clouds need a sky to ornament, more than
grasses need the teachings of a storm.
But now that I'm older I no longer want
any of those things, just a moment of time
enjoyed—sacred, but somewhat ridiculous.
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