I know that I must not exist
in synchronicity with you
nor may my soul create
within this lumbering
and evanescent form,
an odyssey of light,
no, not alone--
it takes a higher self
that I do not remember very well,
to make it swell
within a breathless chest--
that this is art!
That search within goes on,
for what is there that speaks?
What tiny cell is fired,
freeing up the stuff to change
a universe?
Or is there mystic sperm and egg uniting
there within a spirit womb,
there in a microscopic cosmos?
Might there be a spirit bishop
or a phantom God
to launch the swarm of particles
in Botticelli's mind?
There go my children,
fending for themselves
and never looking back
upon their hollow birthplace.
You and I are equally
without a clue to where we came from,
how or why, or what the process means.
And when I graduate to death,
quite willing to forsake my breath,
not wonder, (for a heaven of answers
surely is my hell) I'll not neglect
as my last opus, to create
a gracious God who may
receive my gratitude.
~
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