A Celestial Urge

It’s a celestial urge, to be a poet;
to rewrite the world as you see it,
true and just, or not.
To be a Creator,
forming your likeness of the Earth
from which you were born
and to which you are destined
to return, humbly kneeling
before the altar of fate.

To be a Believer,
praising the glorious work
of our Almighty Father
and seeing His wonders inherit
His terrarium of caged light
and we, His songbirds,
praying for mercy at the end of days.
The caged bird sings
as beautiful as the untamed
when our hearts are all the same;
we’re all God’s madmen,
poet and politician alike,
nothing divides us but
our heart’s image of our
Heavenly Father.

I know not much and I am nothing,
not even a blade of grass
of a seed from the
Garden of Eden.
But still I am, and see, and feel,
the light and dark are all the same,
different hues of the known,
and to know is to love.
To love as I do, in night and day
is all the same to me;
gladly I kneel and give my life –
what is it, but a blessing in disguise
to suffer and die
in the ephemeral space I occupy
and to maybe let the light sting me,
like a golden bee, time and time again?

For I am multitudes but nothing at all,
I am the sum of the past in the equation of tomorrow;
to even be a part of a blade of grass
is more than I ask.
I know nothing – what is grass
but the uncut hair of graves,
so let me kiss you welcome,
welcome to the dirt,
and to help you find your way
back to the light.
Here I will remain,
don’t look for me in the halls of scholars
or amongst the grand and praised;
when I am lost,
look for me
under the soles of your heels.

If only I were a poet
I’d praise the world loud and clear
but I am nothing
so let me do this,
one prayer, one allowance I ask
and I’ll be silent until
I’m called from my grave
crawling through the dirt
into the air, calling all,
grass and leaf and drop and dream;
if only I may not be
the poet, seeing all –
let me be the poem,
carved onto the lifeless stone.

A glimpse of hope and humanity
that really is nothing of the sort;
tokens for the dead means
nothing to them,
but is everything for the living
when in truth the dead
are honest, silent, kind,
patiently waiting with
stolen breath that is bated
maybe the living ones will see
they were the poets
all along.

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