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With rhyme and meter in my head, I set out to conjure an ancient poem

One of splendor, one of dread, a poem that somehow brings us home

But where to start, how does thought begin, how can one fill word with living light?

Is it not all part of the mystery, that intrinsic flame which our souls ignite?

 

Martyrs, kings, popes and peasants all dream of brilliant shining splendor

But they all seek to attain it differently, some through death and some through a vendor.

And who’s to say which ones right or wrong, to judge is of contradictory nature

For those who judge are judged themselves, by those of opposing nomenclature

 

Symbolic displays of yesterday’s essence can be seen all around us today

But to look past its disguise, we must see not with our eyes, for inherently we know the way.

To touch something real, to conceive something new, can lift one up to the stars

But to hold something stale, to regurgitate thought, is to lock up oneself behind bars

 

People walk by, existences change, from one form into the next

And if you look at this right, thinking not on the trite, you’ll see that we're all part of some heavenly text

Why is it changing? To where are we flowing? Why do I reach out to ask?

For instance the human destiny, to map it must not be our task

 

These words I am thinking, these breaths I am breathing, will pass as all things do

But my sincere hope as I sit writing this poem, is that these words find new life through you