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,

Love;

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.

A.M