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Reaching For Something



We prefer the visible because we don't
know the unseen.  Maybe.
But we are also always looking.
What is withheld is what you need
to do more.
The lack defines the limit.
The lucky can't see it.
The rest stare across the wall
of the impossible, longing.
Who knows what you could have been
with what you were not given?
We all die with our hand outstretched,
reaching for something,
even if it is only death.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.