Pen in hand, still, I wait
And await some distant wave of inspiration
Exploded across the cosmos
One-hundred-and-thirty-million lifetimes ago
Crystalized in those years through the void,
An ever yawning silence, never arriving
Trembling through the ink in my palm
Scribbling into jots and tittles of a new tongue
Did you see me? Did you know me then,
The future inheritor of your death?
Life springs forth from the scattered remains
Of heavy metals and precious gems alike
Each treacherous and treasures to be sifted
Through the quill I now hold.
I wish for you I was more. Less an imperfect craft
Childlike before the Ancient of Days.
Words drip - spoon fed - from my chin
In rivulets into puddles of shimmering reflection.
Oh Beauty! But beauty not within my power to create.
Best not to know this inadequacy
Nor to plum the shallowness of my reservoir
For you are enough,
Your presence sufficient to fill whatever vessel
Is present and presented to your purpose.