Awaken my heart

What a catastrophe

it would be If 

I 

were to discover 

that

I 

marked the 

beginning

of 

me, 

myself,

and irrevocably

the end 

of, 

I. 

Yet, 
this 
self-congratulatory 

culture of being

one's own god - 

  where one's opinion 
  is magically transformed by 

  self-gratifying, self-glorifying 

  media 
  into fact 
  (forget about objective evidence), 

  making one the reality-star of 
  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. 

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