Revolution

Days fall out of the sky smelling like revolution
and here I am making cake.
I dream of battlefields and sewing groups
and struggle with the mingle.

Destiny is an idea, instead of my defining verb
and I pause in who I am; content,
with a little itch of more struggling to the surface.
I helped give life!  Was part of creation, and I own that
beautiful definition of my strength and my now.
Or maybe my future?
That's part of who I am.
Or maybe who I should be?
I forget, and cannot define.  The line is blurry.

I yearn for their definitives ... their dreams, their battlefields.
I still yearn for mine.  But maybe they've come and gone, unnoticed.
I wanted more some time ago, and forgot to ask for it.
Is it okay to be content with this acknowledgement?
Because I am.  I think. 
I found a new me along the way, and abandoned imaginatives.
Maybe I found new dreams.

Or maybe I should fight my way to them.  Or maybe I already am.
I have inherent worth, but don't own it because
it's not yet earned.  
Or maybe it is.  I am content.  Soaring, even.

And I wonder if that's enough.