artificer
The Artisan's Throne
I think that just beyond the deepest point
Our souls can reach,
There lies the place where
Our children wait to incarnate,
And in the darkness,
Actuated through voluminous walls of air,
Gravity sucks them into it's vacuum,
They enter into slimy saturation,
And flesh and bone begins
To imbue their being.
They permeate this budding existence
Without defense, or knowledge,
Propelled by the force they left,
Where they circled in space,
For thousands of Earth years.
Now a human, living love essence,
Bound to slice the charred debris
Of our sometimes too well thought out plans,
A step ahead of us they plow their way
To mold us, sometimes scold us,
Scar and control us.
As they journey to become born,
While seeds of this innate knowing
Burrow deep within their subconscious,
Our eyes, gazing upon the miracle of birth itself,
Project us into blissful delight at their presence,
Comforting us as we spar with the hand of mortality,
Reminding us in our deepest repression,
The space from which we came,
Taunting our moment of utter euphoria,
A subtle elusive gnawing query,
Starved, by and through our own ignorance
And trepidation of who we are.
So our retort to this vexatious notion
Becomes an obsessive adoration
Of these fleshy creations which do not even belong to us,
They are the squires of our purpose,
Like projectile bits of sawdust and splintered wood
From a carpenter's saw,
Remnants of the artisan's aspirations,
And humanity's desperation to fullfill the promise of
A life well lived.
I used to love to watch my grandfather in his basement,
Carving fine artistry from rough edged pieces of wood,
As I rocked in the small rocking chair he made for myself,
My siblings and cousins, each taking our turns,
At the artisan's throne.
1:47 AM 6/25/2013 ©
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