The Storm Before the Calm

– I. –
Do you speak to me
out of pity for my station?
I hope so.
The alternative is worse.
Otherwise, you could not know
who I am.

– II. –
Language kills the spontaneity
of expression.
It abrades us into blunt forms
and sewn-together vernacular.
Creativity erupts.
The molten idea shakes out
from passions
built moment by moment
into a tense canon
only inevitable in its evacuation.

– III. –
For a long time, nothingness
was considered insignificant.
And when that word took meaning,
a fearfulness imbued it, a ward
against the void that certainly
must swallow those who
contemplated it.
When we did understand that
nothingness wasn’t
locked into barren forfeiture
but was fertile ground any and all
potential could manifest
and grow and
nurture within, we knew
ideas for what truly they were:
Creation itself, slowly unfolding
in our eyes.

– IV. –
I, Truth,
live heartbeat through heartbeat.
I, Love,
affirm the caressing pulse
of raindrops over the soil.
I, Sorrow,
blossom beneath the harrowed stars
and generously gentle moonlight.
I, Hope,
leap across every wide open space.

– V. –
Tomorrow you will know.
Enjoy the anticipation.
The least ostentatious among us
will never relent
in the simple task of meaning
what we say.

*

Copyright 2015 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.

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