stunts and tries

The world is for my purposes, 
and set against my dreams, 
designs in scrawl by chalk
and charcoal chiaroscuro, 

or so it seems as paper balks
in light so blind, and falls
apart to sections, torn
and spent by fury's 
scribblings.

Still good for fire.
Keep us warm. 

The problem with my dream's
designs is that they're abstract. 
Frivolous,

 
some
say. 

I say

the world is for such
purposes gratuitous. 
Which as we know
and let them play,
can come in quite
fortuitously. Even more
than lifetime's want
could show,

that is, 

until you see
and know, so
grow. So much,
so far, so better yet
than necessary. 

The world is so much
more for stunts and tries
than any need could be, 

eventually. 

Who knows how
far it could be for.
The only one who
tries and finds 
and larks and
plays 
perfects
the score. Leaving
practice far
behind.