What a catastrophe
it would be If
I
were to discover
that
I
marked the
beginning
of
me,
myself,
and irrevocably
the end
of,
Yet,
this
self-congratulatory
this
self-congratulatory
culture of being
one's own god -
where one's opinion
is magically transformed by
is magically transformed by
self-gratifying, self-glorifying
media
into fact
(forget about objective evidence),
into fact
(forget about objective evidence),
making one the reality-star of
a self-written script, a self-directed gong show -
a self-written script, a self-directed gong show -
this culture
of naval-gazers
seeking
justification
in the stars
for their own version
of the
latest
truth,
does nothing but
revolve around
one's self
in dizzying
Oedipal
preoccupation . . .
Limits us to this
treacherous lie
that
I
begat
the world
and that
I
would inevitably
bring its demise.
Limits us to this
man-made
boundary
on
imagination,
dreams,
bold excursions
into possibility,
to go where no man has gone before.
Limits us to this
tailspin
into arrogance,
no room for wisdom
save one's own;
no room for creativity
save repackaged
stale
revelation
long lost its luster.
O that you would sing me a new song
A song that enthralled and comforted
this poet's heart
stretched much too thin
like butter over too much bread
for life's burdens have broken
what hope she held.
O that you would paint me a new picture!
Salve to my blind eyes
drawing me to rest
in everlasting
arms so blest.
O that my heart would quicken again
to know that the center of this existence
is not mere man
meandering through existence
self-made
self-determined
self-centered . . .
Remind me once more
that this is all a dance,
a romance
between you and I,
a partnership of love,
not coerced control
- the lunatic's tale,
but a love story
born out of
sacrifice
purpose
and desire
to give
of
yourself
completely
to
me.
Limits us to this
man-made
boundary
on
imagination,
dreams,
bold excursions
into possibility,
to go where no man has gone before.
Limits us to this
tailspin
into arrogance,
no room for wisdom
save one's own;
no room for creativity
save repackaged
stale
revelation
long lost its luster.
O that you would sing me a new song
A song that enthralled and comforted
this poet's heart
stretched much too thin
like butter over too much bread
for life's burdens have broken
what hope she held.
O that you would paint me a new picture!
Salve to my blind eyes
drawing me to rest
in everlasting
arms so blest.
O that my heart would quicken again
to know that the center of this existence
is not mere man
meandering through existence
self-made
self-determined
self-centered . . .
Remind me once more
that this is all a dance,
a romance
between you and I,
a partnership of love,
not coerced control
- the lunatic's tale,
but a love story
born out of
sacrifice
purpose
and desire
to give
of
yourself
completely
to
me.
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