My words, are but the breath of my inspirer.
The thoughts which trouble my mind
Were given, not conspired through composition.
The purpose as for now, unclear;
Yet driven by palpitating force,
Coursing words and images through my veins,
So with motivation sure, I determine
That I must present myself, my physical being
To the guidance of Greater inspiration;
One which belongs in the Heavens,
As my feet remain rested, firmly planted
In this physical realm; knowing that
Inspiration is only but a reach away
And the union of the Divine
As He creates through his creation,
In and of itself provides the catalyst
For my daily motivation.
Therefore I wait, to fulfill my aspiration,
To commune through collaboration,
Whilst I suffer a discomforting ache;
But oh, it is an exquisite pain
That I gladly endure and would long after,
If the inspiration left and the breath
Of the Creator, removed Himself from me.
The End
Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: I Possess the Hell That Encamps Against Me
Return to: The Works of Mark Edgemon
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