Dominique

Preface: I'm reading The Fountainhead (amazing book) and attempted to write a poem after reading a miserable chapter about Dominique Francon:


You long for the extraordinary
and it confines you to the mundane.
You see the possibility of perfection
and want to destroy it.
You won't, because of your love for it
because it exists outside of your reach.
And the pain cripples you,
but you long for the pain,
because it proves the extraordinary.
And you move on to live that somewhat healthy life.
You know you've come a long way
but a sentence is uttered, a thought intrudes
reminding you
and it feels like only yesterday again
when the extraordinary was so close
yet so very far.
Still, you seek something different, something better even.
Maybe it will come.
And in the meantime, it is all mundane.