Sunday, March 29, 2015

The Creator

Have you come to my rescue?
Whole or in half,
Broken or torn?
As a teacher, a muse, a pupil,
Or my match? 
Will you light the way to my dreams?
Or are you another I can’t learn from.

His words are truth,
The truth within my soul,
The only truth I know.

He doesn’t write from logic,
From poetic perception,
He doesn’t strive to embellish.
He doesn't only reveal his righteous, 
tender bits: his aspirations of a better man.

He writes with his fingers but it is not
His flesh that composes.
His soul is the artist;
The master of truth and lies,
The savior of genuine expression.

Hell speaks through his pen
And heaven sees through his eyes.
A deliverer,
Freeing bound hands and removing blind folds.

Releasing souls from chambers of dead hope, 
To unveil corrupted truths
And heavenly lies,
To show men’s soul kingdom.

Splaying spirits; 
revealing darkness 
and planting seeds of light.

In dying flesh lies eternal existence,
Within a corrupted body dwells an angel;
Perceiving as men
But experiencing divine wisdom.

Burning through lies and igniting truth,
Living in hell and aspiring heaven;
There lays the artist,
There dwells the poet’s soul.


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