Waiting to Become

Sometimes I feel as if I am waiting to become

as a bud may wait through winter to flower

or a shooting star still in a night-filled sky

waits for its moment to blaze a meteor-shower.

And pent up inside me a creator waits to pounce

on a thought, a word, a theory to propound -

Long years has it borne ennui and self-distrust,

lived still and breathed in darkness profound.

At times like a chained beast it rattles the shutters

that keep its light from shining through;

Gnashing teeth and gnawing at iron shackles,

it howls its angst at such imprisonment too.

But sometimes for an ephemeral eon it flies -

Soaring and glorying in infinite, empyreal skies.