Cursed the Artist

Cursed is the artist,
Who ever must bear witness
To the ever distant horizon
Whose eye alone can see
Shores beyond sight
Beyond existence.

Cursed is he who must see
The shimmering crystal waters
Of a lake of ruby and gold
Guarded by a giant of iron and stone;
Imprisoned within, a maid of diamond.

For he sees another who goes
A knight of bronze and fire,
Another one forever uncreated,
Another song unsung,
Another shore unseen.
A warrior who lives only in dreams.

And though his throat parch
Thinking of those effervescent waters
He must away to a land of mud and dust
To the world where phones jingle
And engines roar, and talking puppets
Talk about the newest fashions
Of dressing cats and dogs.

Cursed is he who dreams of knighthood,
For there are no more giants
Nor maiden royalty,
And to him falls the duty
To gaze longingly at the shores of creation,
Never knowing the dreams which haunt his living.

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Overtake

I’m tired of my condition.
Always inattentive.
Driven to stray.
Made to fail.

The inferior man.
No excuses.
No escape.

Every mistake.
Every heartache.
My life they take.
My soul, forsake.

I don’t know where to go.
I am lost, Elohim.

Please.
Help.
Me.

I feel you, o Father of Love.
I hear you, o Spirit of Justice.
I see you, o Savior of Souls.

May the cracks in my skin
Shine with the light of Your Law.
That I and all my earthly kin
May kneel in awe.

Every mistake.
Every heartache.
My body breaks,
That Your Glory may Overtake.

Why is it that Naps Never Work?

I dunno, I’m not a neurologist. 😐

But I do know that if you lay down for a thirty minute nap, you will always wake up feeling totally unsatisfied and regretful of all your time spent lying face down half-naked with your butt in the air, dreaming of bold and cheesy Dorito warriors doing battle with soulless original flavor Lays chips in an eternal war of salty doom, ending only in obesity and heart failure for all third parties caught in the middle.

Perhaps Colonel Frito and the Rufflenecks will come crashing in on their flaming drop-bags to save the day.

Or we’ll all be eaten alive by Bugs.

For His Excellence, Labor

Lord, I am tired.
I desire to labor
but my mind is short
of the perspicacity
which I demand

Lord to what do I labor
Your greater glory I
desire above all else
If not in heart then
in mind — in cold, cold mind.

Oh Lord why does not
my heart beat for You
as it does for her?
Oh Lord — why, oh why
why oh does not Your spirit
flood my heart to wash
all away which displease
Your Holy Excellence

Lord purge me –
purify the small man – the
weak man – the
pauper who thirsts for You
No more strife, warless days
Lord, quickly, come!