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 It comes 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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Me (in words.)Sometimes I like to write. Not well, mind you. But I do it just the same. Archives
November 2018
Categories |